Before Watson
by Haelia
Summary: There was Lestrade. Vignettes about Lestrade and Sherlock, pre-Watson, in no particular order, chronological or otherwise . Rated T for language, blood, gore, and drug use. Friendship, h/c, humour, adventure. Work-in-progress. Companion piece to LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate's "What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade". See A/N in first chapter.
1. In Which Lestrade Nearly Dies

**A/N: I will cut straight to the chase here and admit with alacrity that this fic was honestly not my idea. Nope. Didn't even occur to me, until I happened to read the lovely LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate's fic, entitled "What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade". It absolutely blew my mind, and you should all read it. Without that piece, this one would not exist. I have taken her ideas, and expounded upon them. Please, please, please read her work first before you go on with this one. You will understand and appreciate it so much more if you do. Many thanks and hugs go out to LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate for letting me capitalise on her beautiful ideas and turn them into stories.**

**A couple chapters later on may be of my own doing, but really the seeds for all of them were of her sowing. **

**Link to her fic here: s/8104479/1/What_You_Dont_Know_About_Greg_Lestrade**

* * *

Most people don't know or acknowledge it, but there was a time before John Watson. It's true. Sherlock Holmes was solving crimes alongside the London police before he ever met Doctor Watson, but it's not well known-about because there was no blog back then. The newspapers weren't obsessed with him, there was no fan following. It was just Sherlock, and the one person on the police force who believed in him.

And that person was Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade.

Greg Lestrade believes in Sherlock Holmes. So much so that he very nearly died for him.

* * *

It was freezing that night in London. The weather authorities were predicting a snowstorm of epic proportions to rip through the area sometime around midnight, and Mother Nature was already mustering her forces. The air was frigid, and the wind bit icily at any exposed flesh, leaving it raw and red within minutes.

Sherlock Holmes was standing in the middle of the street on this particularly cold night. It was after eleven. He didn't shiver from the cold, numb to it, but his cheeks were pink from the wind dragging at him. His crystalline breaths came in short bursts as he stood stock still with his hands in the air.

Twelve feet away from him stood another man. He was bigger than Sherlock – broad through the shoulders, stocky, thick. He had a gun, and it was trained on Sherlock's chest. The entire man's body was trembling, except for that hand, that trained hand. He would not miss. He had even accounted for the windspeed as he took aim.

"Think, Michael. Think. You don't want to add another body to your resumé. That will not help your case," Sherlock said calmly. He daren't move. "Put the gun down. Come in for questioning. If you really didn't murder your wife, then prove it."

"I can't!" the man screamed. "Not when I've got to come up against you!"

_Well, that's because you're guilty, _thought Sherlock, but he had the good sense not to say it. "You haven't got to worry about me; only the justice system. I'm not the police."

"No," the man called Michael sobbed, "but you… you saw… you saw…" He let out a growl of frustration and steadied his gun hand, fixing his aim. His thumb clicked the safety off. "I haven't got a choice!"

Sherlock tensed. Officially, he wasn't here. Nobody but Lestrade knew he'd chased the suspect this far, and he'd lost Lestrade several blocks back. So there was no backup coming. Honestly, Sherlock hoped that Lestrade was utterly lost in the chase through the city, because he was unarmed and if he happened on the scene, Michael would probably kill both of them if he could manage it.

"Don't!" a voice said from behind Sherlock, calm and full of authority.

Speak of the devil. Sherlock cursed under his breath. "Go away, Lestrade," he commanded.

Michael looked conflicted, and even more terrified. He leveled the gun at the detective-inspector, who put up his hands and slowed his approach.

"I'm unarmed," Lestrade said as he drew level with Sherlock. There were only a few feet of space between them as they faced the murderer together. "Listen to me carefully. Put the gun down. We just want to talk to you."

"No," choked Michael. "I c-can't. I can't. Please." He turned the gun on Sherlock again. Sherlock was the real danger here. Sherlock had all the information necessary to put him away for the rest of his life, locked away in that incredible brain of his. He was the one who needed to die. He could let the other one go.

Lestrade glanced from Michael to Sherlock and back again. Things were looking grim. "Michael," he tried again.

"No!" Michael's voice was a scream now. He steadied himself. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I can't… I just can't…" His finger tightened on the trigger.

"No," breathed Lestrade.

The hammer cocked back.

"No!" Lestrade shouted and lunged toward where Sherlock stood, knocking the detective to the ground as the report of the gun echoed through the empty street. He heard Sherlock groan in pain as he fell and the gun clatter to the pavement as Michael took off running.

"Close call," said the detective-inspector, but the words came out oddly choked.

Sherlock was scrambling out from under him, looking more panicked than he had ever seen him. "Shit," the consulting detective muttered, his grey eyes sweeping over Lestrade's form.

The D.I. was lost as to his amateur partner's distress, until he looked down. Saw the blood. Not Sherlock's blood, but his. The pain hit him then and he went limp.

"Oh, no you don't," Sherlock said sharply. Then he was turning him over, pushing him onto his back. He found the wound by touch and by the light of the streetlamps. Low ribcage. Missed the lung. Good, but at that distance and with that particular weapon, the bullet might have ripped clean through to any other major organs that happened to be in the way. Sherlock rocked onto his knees and locked his hands over the wound, applying pressure and putting all his scant weight behind it.

Lestrade released a strangled cry and a string of expletives, limbs flailing against the pavement as bitter agony wracked his body.

"You are incredibly stupid," Sherlock snarled at him. His eyes scanned Lestrade's body, searching. He took in his pallid face, the sweat that had already started to break out on his skin, his uneven breathing. Then he looked for the phone. He must have it on him. "You stupid, brash idiot of a man. How did you even graduate from the Academy?" Sherlock's long line of insults was a testament to how bad the wound must be. He would be relatively civil if it were nothing. "Where is it?" he demanded.

"Where… is… what…?" Lestrade gasped, eyelids aflutter.

"Your phone, you imbecile. Your phone." Sherlock did not wait for an answer. Instead he freed one hand from the wound – increased the pressure to make up for it, much to Greg's dismay – and patted down the man's pockets. Found his phone in his front right trouser pocket. Dialled the station.

Donovan picked up the phone. "Greg, your –"

Sherlock interrupted her. "Sally, send an ambulance to sixteen Bayward Street immediately."

"Freak?"

"Lestrade is down." The phone was pinned between Sherlock's shoulder and his ear as he replaced both hands over the wound. "Do it now." He lifted his head then, and let the phone clatter to the ground, forgotten. He had better things to do, like keep the poor sod awake.

Lestrade sighed.

"Open your eyes," Sherlock commanded. He rifled through the digital catalogue of his mind, calling to the forefront every medical text he had ever read (and not deleted). There weren't many; he didn't generally have much use for doctoring the living. "You can't go to sleep here, you're in the middle of the street."

"Cold," stated Lestrade.

A fat snowflake drifted lazily from the heavens and landed upon the end of the detective-inspector's nose.

"Yes, yes it is." Sherlock maneouvred out of his overcoat one arm at a time and spread it over the stricken officer, whilst keeping both his hands and all his weight upon the gaping hole in his chest. The blood loss was incredible. A pint at least, so far. If the ambulance did not arrive soon, Lestrade would bleed out. The consulting detective unwound his scarf from around his throat and it disappeared beneath the coat as well, now serving as a staunch.

Lestrade moaned.

"Oh shut up," Sherlock spat, but he was having trouble putting any venom into his voice. "You got yourself into this. If you'd stayed out of it, I would have him at the station by now, admitting his guilt."

"That's just not true," said the fallen officer. His voice was growing very faint.

Sherlock could think of nothing else to keep the man talking except to argue with him. "Oh I disagree entirely. I had the situation thoroughly under control. Couldn't you see that?"

"It's snowing."

"So it is. It'll be a white Christmas yet. Aren't you pleased?"

"I won."

"Sorry?"

"The bet."

The bet in question was with Anderson. Whether or not it would snow tonight. What a stupid thing to bet money on. Sherlock didn't say so, though. He was too busy listening to the sirens and trying to gauge their distance from here.

"Listen… Sherlock…" Lestrade forced his eyes all the way open, staring at Sherlock intently. "_Listen_ to me."

"I'm listening."

"Don't let them… push you around… you hear me?" He coughed, and the effect upon his body was ghastly pain. He winced, struggled for breath, and went on. "The others, they're… they're intimidated by… by you. Hell, I… 'm intimidated by you… But don't… don't let them… bully you…"

"I'm sure I needn't worry. You always seem to put them in their place."

"Yes… but… when I'm not… there… you won't have… anyone else to… defend you when you… act like a prick. So… don't act like… a prick… but don't… let them… push you about. They… will need you… still…" The effort of speaking was putting a great strain on his body, sapping his energy. His eyes rolled back.

Sherlock pressed harder into the wound, inflicting enough pain that he hoped it would rouse the D.I. He would have done something kinder, like tapped his face, but he couldn't risk removing his hands from the wound. Couldn't, wouldn't. "Well, then I guess you can't go on holiday," Sherlock said, forcing some annoyance into his voice. "Too bad for you."

"Sherlock, that's…"

"Sh! I'm trying to hear. The ambulance is nearly here, Lestrade." He had to utilise all of his self-control not to shout at them to kindly drive a little faster. After all, the streets were deserted.

The next hour passed in a blur. Sherlock rode in the back of the ambulance with Greg, rattling off numbers – pulse rate, respiration, proximity of the shooter and the model of the weapon, right on up through all the things the paramedics didn't care about, just to have something to say. He was worried. He'd never admit it, but he did not want to see Greg Lestrade die tonight. Or ever, really, but especially not tonight, especially not after having jumped in front of a bullet to save _his_ stupid life. Eventually, one of the paramedics snapped at him to shut the hell up, and he did. He didn't say another word.

* * *

He was asleep in a waiting area chair when it happened. One minute he was out cold – a rarity, for him – and the next, someone was grabbing a fistful of his shirtfront and pinning him against the wall with excessive force.

"_I will fucking kill you_," hissed Sally Donovan, her face inches from Sherlock's.

Sherlock offered no retaliation, only stared into Sally's brown eyes with plenty of unspoken venom in his own.

Not good, then.

"They're saying he won't walk again. His career is over, and it's all your fault, Freak. I will _fucking kill you_. You weren't even supposed to be out there. You are not authorised to pursue suspects! How many times, Freak? How many times? Well, I'll tell you what, you'll not get a case from us again. I'll have you – " She was cut off as hospital security pried her away.

Sherlock remained where he was, back against the wall as Sally was led away by security. She was still screaming at him when they pushed her onto the elevator.

_They're saying he won't walk again. His career is over, and it's all your fault._ Sherlock closed his eyes and could see the trajectory of the bullet in his mind's eye. Coat, shirt, flesh, muscle. Missed the ribs, missed the vital organs. Plunging through the chest cavity. Burying itself in the spinal column.

All his fault. Detaching himself from the wall, Sherlock left. Left the rest of the police force in the waiting area and went home. For the first time in months, Sherlock rang Mycroft.

* * *

The monitor beeped with a comforting sort of regularity. Comforting for most people, probably. For Sherlock it was maddening, like a hammer striking a nail into his temple. His hands were shaking as he stood by the hospital bed containing Lestrade. The left one hung at his side, clutching onto a packet of papers. The right was wrapped around an absurd assortment of helium balloons attached to a stuffed bear. The bear was holding a plastic sign that said "Get Well Soon!" and it irritated him to no end.

After a time, Lestrade stirred and blinked his eyes open. It had been days since the shooting; he was coherent now. "Sherlock…" he said, a tad surprised to see him.

"Here." Without prelude, Sherlock thrust forward the hand holding the papers. "You need to sign these. I've marked the spaces, you just need to write your name."

"What are they?" Lestrade asked, admiring the sight of Sherlock with a stuffed bear and balloons.

Sherlock seemed to notice what he was staring at, and set the balloons on the bedside table. "Those are for you. Sign these."

"What are they?" repeated Greg, blinking.

"Insurance stuff." He sniffed. "Sign it."

If not for the incredible amount of painkillers in his system, Lestrade might have asked more questions. As it was, his brain was addled, so he signed. Sherlock disappeared shortly thereafter.

A few days later, Lestrade was transferred to a different hospital on the other side of town. A doctor stood at the foot of his bed in his private room and described to him the surgery that was to be done in an attempt to restore his ability to walk. It was groundbreaking, she said, a new method that had been largely successful. He would still require PT, of course, but the surgery would up his chances considerably. If he was diligent, he could be walking again in as little as six weeks. Working again in eight.

"I don't understand," Lestrade said, shaking his head a little. "Where is all this coming from?"

The blond doctor smiled sweetly. "I really can't say. Someone out there is looking out for you, Detective-Inspector."

* * *

A few weeks later, Sherlock visited Lestrade in hospital again. Made awkward small talk and then interrogated him about his progress. And then left.

Within a month of the incident, Lestrade was on his feet again.

To this day, he doesn't know for sure that Mycroft Holmes was the anonymous benefactor who got him the groundbreaking surgery, and put him in the best physical therapy programme in the country. It's a favour that Sherlock never would have asked Mycroft to do for anyone else, but when he approached Mycroft with the idea, he was prepared to trade just about anything. Mycroft named his price, and Sherlock agreed without a second word on the matter. The papers were pushed through within the hour, and Lestrade inadvertently signed them the next day.

Sherlock kept all of this to himself.


	2. In Which Lestrade Receives A Gift

**Greg Lestrade is a film buff.  
**_**-"What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"**_

* * *

It wasn't widely known, but Greg Lestrade's birthday was July 9th. They never kicked up much of a fuss at the station. He'd made some offhanded comment a bunch of years ago about how embarrassing it was to be made the centre of attention for something silly like being born. So after that, the birthday recognition was subdued – they would usually buy him lunch, or a box of doughnuts, or a gift card to his favourite coffee place. The whole office would sign one of those vulgar greeting cards and set it on his desk before he came in.

Greg Lestrade didn't really have friends, though, so that was his entire birthday celebration. Condensed into a greeting card printed with some crude joke about how old he was getting. He didn't mind. It was nice that they cared at all.

Sherlock Holmes was at the station one morning when the card was going round. Sally held it out to him, lips pursed. "Want to sign?" she asked. She looked as if someone had put her up to it. When Sherlock didn't answer right away, she put a pen in his hand. "Hurry up," she said, "before he gets here." She watched him as he signed something illegible, then took back the card and her pen and didn't say anything else to him.

Birthdays had not really occurred to Sherlock before. He hadn't celebrated or even marked the passing of his own since he was a very young child. Honestly, if not for it being printed on his ID card, he might have forgotten it entirely. He looked over at Lestrade's empty desk in the office across the way. There was a small potted cactus plant adorned in a bow sitting next to the card. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Who in the hell thought that was a good idea?

A few hours later, Lestrade came into the office and accepted his stupid cactus plant and the card and a glazed doughnut. But after all the fuss had died down, he opened his desk drawer and was surprised to find a tiny, plain, twine-bound box sitting there amongst the office junk.

The box contained a season pass to a local theatre called Film Streams, which screened classic movies one night a week for the duration of the summer. The inside of the lid of the box was signed. _Enjoy. –SH_

Greg Lestrade grinned like an idiot for the next hour.


	3. In Which Sherlock Detoxifies

**Greg Lestrade witnessed almost all of Sherlock's detox. And it was horrible.  
**_**-"What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"**_

* * *

It was raining. Greg Lestrade was standing outside of Sherlock Holmes's flat, listening to the sound of glass breaking and men shouting at each other, and wondering whether or not he ought to go up. All he wanted was an update on a case that they were working on together, but Sherlock hadn't been answering his phone. Greg had been in the area on other business anyway, so he decided to stop by. Now, standing outside listening to the muffled voices emanating from an upstairs window, he was glad he'd done so. He listened for a little while, trying to gauge the situation. Was Sherlock having a row with a neighbour, or was he genuinely in trouble? He couldn't tell. Greg decided to just go up.

The door was ajar when he got there, which wasn't a good sign at all. He tensed, and pushed it open. "Sherlock…?"

It was the face of Mycroft Holmes that he saw first. He and Mycroft had only met once or twice in passing, but he recognised him immediately. Mycroft did not look happy. Across from him stood his younger brother, his posture tense and defensive.

Greg realised he had interrupted a sibling quarrel. "Oh…" he said lamely. "I'll just come back." He turned to make his escape.

"No." Mycroft's voice stopped him without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Stay. Maybe you can talk some sense into my brother."

The silence was icy as Lestrade turned round, glancing in bewilderment from one Holmes to the other. Suddenly, Mycroft turned and looked at him, his expression sarcastic. "Did dear Sherlock happen to mention why he was unable to assist you in the theft case last week-end?"

Lestrade blinked and thought back. "He was traveling," he recalled, shrugging. "Norwich, I think? He had a client…"

Mycroft laughed and shook his head disapprovingly, his gaze snapping back to Sherlock now. "Oh, little brother. Do tell him the truth, won't you."

Sherlock turned his back and went to the sofa. He sat, picked up his tea from the side table, and sipped quietly. "I was in hospital," he admitted, seeing that there was no way out of this.

"You were – what?" Greg shook his head, confused. He sputtered for a moment. "Why?"

Both men were looking expectantly to Sherlock now, though the D.I. lacked the slight amusement that Mycroft seemed to be deriving from the situation.

"Drug overdose," Sherlock replied curtly, eyes on his teacup. He looked unconcerned, but his mouth twitched in annoyance.

"Morphine," Mycroft added. "His heart stopped. He would have died if I hadn't happened to stop by to check in on him." He sniffed.

Lestrade sputtered some more.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and continued. "And now here we are. I am trying to convince Sherlock to give this nonsense up before it claims his life."

It wasn't as if Greg Lestrade hadn't had his suspicions, but they had been as-yet unconfirmed. Honestly, his view of it had been that it was none of his business, but now Mycroft was making it his business. And to know that Sherlock had been reckless and nearly gotten himself killed… Lestrade was at a loss for words. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Sherlock…"

"There is a fine rehabilitation centre right here in London," said Mycroft. He sensed his brother about to snap at him, and he held up a hand. "And before you say no, consider this – I'm quite certain the police department cannot consult with a known drug addict."

The ace in the hole.

Lestrade looked startled as he realised that Mycroft was right. If anyone found out that he had been consulting with an amateur detective whose mental stability could be brought into question, he could be in serious trouble. His whole team could be. "He's… He's right, Sherlock," he said, sounding pretty shocked by the idea himself. He shook his head slowly. "I can't keep bringing you in on cases unless you clean up. How long's this been going on…?"

"Far longer than you want to know," the elder Holmes advised. "Now, Sherlock. You promised me, once. I'm calling in that favour now. You must go. I've got all the paperwork in hand, and – "

"No," said Sherlock, looking up finally. His face was stony, but there was something in his eyes that was pained. He wasn't paid for his work with the police, but it was his life. He couldn't get by on the crap the private clientele brought in. Missing rabbits and cheating husbands and nonsense like that. He needed the cases that Lestrade gave him – they were how he sustained himself. _Existence, mere existence, is so dull_. "I can manage it on my own. Here."

Mycroft looked doubtful. "A centre would be better suited to accommodate your needs. There are people there to look after you. Doctors. Trained people."

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head. He would never survive in a place like that, constantly being watched, constantly being forced to endure all those imbecilic _people_. "If I am to do this, it will be on my terms. Here, or not at all."

"I don't think you understand how –"

"I'll look in on him," Lestrade interrupted. Both Holmes brothers looked to him, surprised. He nodded, running a hand back through his hair. "Yeah, I can drop by now and then, help keep him on track." _After all, we need him_, he thought, though he didn't say it. Sherlock already knew it.

Still, Mycroft looked doubtful, his mouth twisting in a way that said he really wanted to argue but knew there was little point. "Fine," he said at last. "But no work until he's clean, and stayed that way. No social visits, either. You - and you alone - look in on him when I can't, and then you leave. And if he slips, it'll be the rehab centre, no second chances." He looked sharply to his younger brother. "You will not leave this flat for investigation of any kind – private or otherwise. Am I understood?"

Sherlock nodded absently, but he was looking at Lestrade, inspecting him as if seeing him in a new light.

"Settled, then," sighed Mycroft. He held his hand out for Sherlock to deposit his paraphernalia. "First things first."

* * *

**Week 1**

Monday after work, Lestrade stopped for curry takeaway and headed for Sherlock's flat. It had been a very long day. Not only was he out one of his most valuable men, but that man had insisted on texting him all day long.

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 0817  
If you are working on Reidell case, check sister-in-law's attic for photo album dated 1984.**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 0936  
Did you find it?**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 0958  
Sister-in-law lives in Sussex.**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1021  
You're ignoring me.**

Around eleven, Sally Donovan stormed into Lestrade's office. Her phone was buzzing repeatedly with consecutive texts, each of them consisting of one word: **Lestrade**. "If he doesn't stop, I'm going to have to be investigated for murder meself," she warned, throwing her phone down on Greg's desk. "Don't know what the Freak's up to, but he wants your attention."

Greg's phone vibrated as Sally swept out of the room.

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1104  
Mycroft said no leaving the flat. I'm in the flat. Give me something.**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1229  
He's here, and if you called him, I will kill you.**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1232  
Nevermind.**

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1259  
Please come to 12 Southerby Avenue and arrest one Mycroft Holmes for persistent harassment. **

**From: Sherlock Holmes  
Time: 1305  
I said please.**

It was around then that Lestrade turned off his mobile. This was a good idea, because the texts became decidedly grimmer after that point. When he left the station and turned the device back on, he read through some of them and winced. Time to pay the incapacitated private eye a visit.

Hence the curry takeaway.

Lestrade's steps resounded on the stairs, announcing his presence long before he knocked and pushed open Sherlock's door. He frowned as his eyes settled on the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, his feet planted on the floor, elbows on knees, head cradled in his hands. There was a bin on the floor between his legs. The sickly tinge to his face indicated that he'd probably been like this for some time. Mycroft was seated awkwardly beside him, tie loosened, one hand rubbing slow circles into the middle of Sherlock's back.

"Thought we might watch the City match," Lestrade said lightly, kicking off his boots. He set his burden down on the kitchen counter. "Brought Indian takeaway."

Sherlock glared at the D.I. and promptly vomited into the bin.

"Right. No curry, then. It'll keep." He stuck the entire bag into the refrigerator, ignoring the petri dish of yuck that was sitting there beside the cheese. When he returned to the sitting room, Mycroft was standing, straightening his tie as he went for his briefcase.

"Well, I'd best be off," said the elder Holmes.

"Finally," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft's mouth turned down in a frown, and he tipped his hat to Greg with a look that said he considered this a 'social visit' but that he wasn't going to do anything about it. Lestrade never thought he would. "Good evening, Inspector…" With one final glance at his brother, he departed, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Greg drew a glass of water and went over to where Sherlock sat, handing him the glass and frowning down at him. "Alright there, mate?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, accepting the glass. He sipped and set it down. Then he waved in the general direction of the kitchen. "Have your curry," he advised. Waiting for his stomach to settle would be entirely pointless, so Lestrade had best just eat without him.

"Nah, in a bit," Lestrade replied casually, dropping into an armchair and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He dug the remote out from between the cushions. "Sh'we see the match then?"

Sherlock shivered. "God, yes." Mycroft had been a terrible bore. At this point, he would have watched anything to take his mind off of his misery.

A few hours later, Lestrade tucked a blanket around a very unconscious detective, muted the television, and tidied the sitting room a bit. He lit a candle to disperse the smell of sick from the room and collapsed back into the armchair to shovel down a bit of curry. The next morning he woke in the same armchair with the takeaway dish still in his lap. Sherlock pretended to be asleep while the D.I. gathered his things and went to work.

The next two days passed in a similar manner. Sherlock was desperately ill and stoically silent, but he did not protest if Greg or Mycroft happened to sit down and rub a hand slowly over his back whilst he tried to contain all his sick in a bin on the floor. Lestrade eventually broke down and started bringing over bits from the case files to ask Sherlock's opinion (whether he needed it or not). They agreed to keep this little detail to themselves, because Mycroft had expressly forbidden Sherlock from working whilst he was detoxing – it was to be his reward for coming through this clean. But Lestrade knew better than to expect Sherlock to survive without a bit of work to do. What else did he have to keep his mind occupied?

Friday night was the worst by far. Lestrade stopped by in the afternoon to find Sherlock curled up on the bathroom floor, a tangle of long limbs and sweat-slicked hair. His t-shirt and pyjama bottoms were soaked clean through. He said nothing, only knelt and helped the detective support himself while he vomited into the toilet bowl for the next hour and a half. Then, when there seemed to be nothing left to bring up, he helped him clean up and change into dry clothes. Moved him to the sitting room, flicked on the telly as a distraction.

"Should I call Mycroft?" he asked quietly, watching as Sherlock shivered on the couch beneath a fleece throw.

Sherlock looked over at him, blue-grey eyes swiveling to deduce something. He looked Greg over, noted the absence of his coat, the fact he hadn't started to put on his shoes. Trying to decide if his offer to call Mycroft meant he was leaving. When he had concluded that it did not, he shook his head. He said nothing, but Lestrade could read the look on his face. Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath, desperately wanted not to be alone tonight.

So Lestrade stayed. He forced Sherlock to drink water, made him eat something, talked about the case to try to distract him. They watched football and two Audrey Hepburn films and shared a joke at Anderson's expense.

Greg's phone vibrated around ten-thirty.

**From: Mycroft Holmes  
Time: 2228  
Thank you.**

* * *

**Week 2**

Mycroft was considerably more present when Sherlock was mostly through the worst of the physical symptoms. He seemed better equipped to deal with outbursts of violent anger than with his brother puking all over his Italian shoes. Of course, the one or two times Sherlock did still find himself ill, he was sure to aim for the shoes.

It had become routine for Lestrade to head to Sherlock's flat rather than home after work. He often stopped by during lunch, too, to remind him to eat and make sure he hadn't passed out cold in the shower or something. He found himself admiring Sherlock's efforts – and had the distinct feeling that it was the work, not Mycroft's begging, that had convinced him.

One evening, Greg entered Sherlock's place to find the sitting room very tense. Mycroft was seated in the armchair with his 'please see reason' face on, and Sherlock lay on the sofa with one arm thrown up over his eyes. Sherlock's breathing was rapid and his face was pallid; he obviously wasn't feeling well, and clearly in no mood to listen to whatever preachy nonsense Mycroft was trying to force on him now.

"Oh good," Mycroft said as he set eyes upon Lestrade. "Make him eat. He listens to you."

"Nauseous," Sherlock said faintly.

"It's been two days," Mycroft pointed out.

For a while, Lestrade said nothing. He just stood by the door, trying to decide something as he glanced from one brother to the other. After a few minutes of this, he glanced out the window. The sun had set, and the sky was suitably darkened. He went over to where Sherlock lay and offered a hand to help him up. "Come on," he said, "we're going out."

The elder Holmes stood immediately. "Absolutely not. We agreed, Greg – no field work until he's through this."

"It's not field work," Lestrade said. He nudged Sherlock with his knee. "Let's go."

Sherlock accepted the offer of escape and grabbed his coat and scarf.

Lestrade grinned reassuringly, albeit a bit mischievously, at Mycroft before leaving with his younger brother in tow.

They took a cab. Sherlock pressed his face against the cool glass of the window and did not listen to the destination that Greg gave the driver, relieved to be finally out of his flat for once. They drove in silence.

The ride was long. Twenty minutes in, they started to emerge from the lights and sounds of London. Buildings became sparse and eventually gave way to rolling hills and farmland. Another twenty minutes and there weren't even streetlamps to light their way anymore.

"This is good," Lestrade said abruptly, tapping the partition to get the cabbie's attention. The car stopped. Greg paid the fare (which was considerable) and shook Sherlock awake. He smiled boyishly in the dark. "C'mon then, mate."

Obligingly, Sherlock got out of the car. He did not ask where they were supposed to be going, but followed Lestrade wordlessly as he led him up a grassy hill. When they finally reached the top, Lestrade sighed happily and dropped down into the grass to lie on his back. He patted the space beside him and pointed up at the sky.

Sherlock got the message. He lay down beside the D.I. and directed his gaze upward. And gasped a little.

"Meteor shower," Greg said as they stared at the sky together. The deep purple of it was streaked with the occasional luminescent path of a distant meteor. "Supposedly this particular one only appears every hundred years or something. Can't see it from the city, with all the lights."

"Geminid," Sherlock breathed. For all his vast knowledge, he had never actually taken the time to witness something like this. He stared.

Lestrade couldn't help but smile at his fascinated expression. He was certain that he'd be bored in twenty minutes, or they'd argue about something stupid and end up leaving in a hurry. But for now, it was nice, just lying here in the grass, watching the stars.

But, despite Lestrade's unspoken misgivings, they stayed there for three hours and Sherlock didn't make a single snide remark. The two of them just lay there, staring at the sky in comfortable silence.

* * *

**Week 3**

There were papers flying everywhere. Knicknacks shattered against the wall as Sherlock threw them in his mad search of the flat. He was livid, shaking, upturning furniture in a desperate, frenzied hunt for something that wasn't there.

Lestrade and Mycroft could only stand there and watch.

"Sherlock, it's not here," Mycroft tried. There was pain in his voice. "We went over the entire flat, remember? We got rid of everything."

"The morphine," Sherlock hissed. "But there was – "

"Cocaine," Mycroft finished for him, as gently as he could. "We disposed of that too, remember?"

Sherlock lunged for his brother with murder in his eyes.

Lestrade stepped between them and intercepted Sherlock bodily, wrapping an arm around his waist and using the other to grab a fistful of his dressing gown. Swiftly, he stepped forward, half-dragging the frenzied detective toward the other side of the room. Not gently, he pushed him into the wall, pinning him there with a hand against his chest. He could feel the thunderous beat of his heart beneath his palm. "Stop this," he commanded with a voice of authority that would brook no argument. "It's gone, Sherlock, it's bloody gone. Now knock it the hell off before you bring down the whole bloody building!" With his free hand, he fished a pack of cigarettes out of his inside jacket pocket and pressed the tiny cardboard box into Sherlock's hand. "That's the best you're gonna get, now _sit down_."

Sherlock sat, cowed.

Lestrade and Mycroft exchanged a look.

* * *

**Week 4**

"I can work. Look at me, Mycroft. I can work."

Mycroft looked dubious. He also looked cornered. He had known this conversation was coming, and he had assumed (incorrectly) that Lestrade would be on his side when it did finally occur. But, in fact, Lestrade took a place on the sofa beside Sherlock, facing Mycroft, and backed him up when he said he was ready to start consulting on cases again.

"I am looking at you," Mycroft assured his little brother, glancing disapprovingly at Lestrade. "You have made tremendous progress, Sherlock, but I do not think it is wise to rush things."

"Eh," Lestrade interrupted. "Wouldn't exactly be rushing, would it?" He glanced at Sherlock and then at the floor.

Sherlock was smirking.

Mycroft stood. He looked around. Noticed things he hadn't bothered to look at before. Pressed his palm to his own forehead and sighed heavily.

"We had an agreement, Detective-Inspector…"

Lestrade shrugged.

Mycroft scraped together some composure and looked at his brother critically. "I'll think about it," he said at last. "I am not comfortable with the idea that you could be exposed to situations that will tempt you again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a common junkie, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes was already headed for the door, briefcase in hand. "I'll think about it."

The next morning, Greg Lestrade received a text as he was shaving.

**From: Mycroft Holmes  
Time: 0715  
Keep a close eye on him. Very close. And please, for the love of God, make sure he eats something.**

Sherlock was positively manic when Lestrade called and asked him to come in that morning. Greg had to hang up on him to avoid being barraged with theories as to the case at hand. "Just… hurry up and get here," laughed Lestrade into the receiver, dropping it back into its cradle.

For Sherlock, it finally seemed as if the nightmare was over.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Sherlock relapsed twice. Briefly and without overdosing. Lestrade was the only person who ever found out. He took it upon himself, then, to 'consult' the detective as much as possible. As long as he was engaged, he wasn't at a risk for relapse. As long as he had work. More than once, Lestrade would send an acquaintance over to Sherlock's with small private cases. He knew Sherlock loathed the 'boring' stuff – locating missing pets and spying on bad nannies – but he also knew that he would do it if he were bored enough.

They never talk about it, but Sherlock wonders sometimes if he ever would have been able to quit the drugs without Lestrade's help. Mycroft alone certainly wouldn't have been able to convince him. But Lestrade had seemed to know exactly what to do every step of the way. Lestrade held the promise of the next case, like a beacon guiding him home during that awful month.

And sometimes, when the need overcomes him again, that's still how Sherlock sees him. The beacon.


	4. In Which Sherlock Apologises

**Greg Lestrade has a long scar on his left arm. He changes the subject when people ask about it. Sherlock doesn't remember picking up that knife and Lestrade doesn't want him to. Sherlock was afraid, and Sherlock was detoxing, and it was Lestrade's fault for trying to touch him.  
**_**-"What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"**_

* * *

The two men occupying a corner booth in the café both looked about as awkward as can be. They refused to look each other square in the face, eyes darting about in a way that suggested they were each searching for an exit. For a long time, they said nothing, sipping at their beverages as they decided on what to say. Unfortunately, they chose to break the silence simultaneously.

"Sherlock – "

"Look, I – "

They both stopped. Lestrade made a gesture to Sherlock to go ahead. Sherlock's mouth set in a grim line and he took a breath through his nose, then continued.

"I think. I may have… said some things." It was not Sherlock's most eloquent day ever. A muscle in his jaw ticked arrhythmically as he fought to string the words together. It wasn't often he had conversations like this. With anyone. But it was important; it had to be done. "And I just wanted to let you know, that I'm… sorry. If I said anything that may have seemed…"

"Sherlock, stop." Greg looked like he had heartburn. His frown looked pained and uncomfortable. He leaned in close and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "People go a little crazy during detox. It's normal. It's _fine_. Trust me, it's not as bad as you – "

Sherlock's fist met the surface of the table, stopping the DI midsentence. "It's. Not. Fine," Sherlock said succinctly. He, too, kept his voice low, but his abrupt abuse of the table had caught the attention of several other patrons. His eyes fell to where Lestrade's left hand lay in awkward rigidity beside his teacup. It made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn't define.

"It's not fine," Sherlock repeated after some time, his voice now resembling some form of calm. He sipped at his coffee. He knew for certain he'd had some sort of altercation with Lestrade a little over a week ago (though he didn't remember it), and it was not _fine_. Lestrade was the only person in the world actually interested in helping him. Studying his mug intently, he continued, "All I am trying to say is that… if there was any sort of… insanity-induced row between us, I'm sorry for anything _unsavoury_ that I might have said." He huffed, flicked his eyes up to Lestrade's, then lowered them again. Now would have also been a good time to thank Lestrade for his support during the past six hellish weeks, but Sherlock could only be expected to embrace so much emotion in one day.

Baby steps, baby steps.

Lestrade smiled, ever so slightly. "No worries, mate." He drained his tea and pushed the cup aside, then slid his hands under a thick stack of files that sat beside him on the bench. Lifting them onto the table, he thumped them down with zeal. The shockwave sloshed Sherlock's coffee in its cup. "Now then. The work's been piling up since you've been out of commission."

Sherlock grinned – actually grinned. He looked like a wolf about to set upon a flock of sheep. "Ah, yes," he purred. "I was wondering how you'd been getting on without me. Terribly, it would seem." He thumbed through the first file, and his eyes lit up. "Ooh – triple murder!"

* * *

**A/N: Lestrade is a saint.**


	5. In Which Lestrade Understands

**A/N: Not terribly fond of this one, but it came to me the other night in one of those half-awake, half-asleep sort of dreams where it ends with you falling and you wake with a start. (Long story, that.) Anyway, I'll likely clean it up a bit in the future, but I mainly wrote it to get some peace from the idea bouncing around my head. Let me know if it doesn't make sense; I sincerely feel like I've done a horrid job of conveying what I'm trying to convey and I'd appreciate some help making it clearer. Thanks! OH BY THE WAY. I'm going to write this on my profile and other WIP updates too, but - I'm taking prompts and requests for fics. Throw an idea my way and I'll write it, I'm not picky. (Please send such requests via PM, though, rather than via review.) Thanks! Please enjoy!**

* * *

They had known each other for over a year the first time that Lestrade saw Sherlock falter under the weight of all that he knew. Up to that point, their relationship had been tentative at best, rocky at worst. There were times when Sherlock snapped at seemingly inappropriate moments, or became irritated for no apparent reason. But it was at this particular point in time that Lestrade finally understood. It was at this particular point in time that Sherlock stopped being otherworldly and started being human.

* * *

The crime scene was wet and soggy and _crowded_. With five bodies all in one place, it was no wonder there was a surplus of personnel present. Just the crowd control alone was a job for an entire team of uniformed officers –the bodies had been displayed ever so carefully in an extremely public place; the killer was an exhibitionist of sorts. There hadn't been time to get the screens up before the onlookers started accumulating. The gaggle of pedestrians only grew, though, once the bodies were screened and the entire area taped off. Apparently, nobody had anything better to do with their Saturday morning.

By the time Sherlock arrived on the scene – after having to push through a throng of jabbering civilians – he was already on edge. After examining the bodies and inspecting the scene, he was thoroughly rattled. By the time he'd briefed Lestrade and his team on his findings, he was reduced to hurling unwarranted insults at Donovan and Anderson for crimes as insignificant as breathing.

Finally, Lestrade had no choice but to pull him out. He wrapped a hand around his upper arm and dragged him away from the scene, through the bystanders, and out onto the crowded street. "Walk with me," he said, in a tone that would brook no argument.

Greg had seen this happen before. And he was damn sick of it. He liked Sherlock – quite a bit, actually – but he liked his team, too, and they couldn't work under the sort of conditions Sherlock was constantly creating for them. It didn't make any sense. Sometimes he got all fired up about the case, and that was all that mattered, and the idiots' stupidity went largely unmarked – or, at the very least, it was remarked upon quietly or so subtly that they didn't even quite pick up on the fact they were being ridiculed. Other times, it was the complete opposite – Sherlock resorted to the most obvious insults, decorating them with big words to make them worthy of himself, and snapped them out at anyone and everyone who happened to get in his way.

It was infuriating.

"This has to stop," Lestrade said gruffly, still leading Sherlock by the arm. He let go as they fell in step with the flow of commuters on the footpath. "Whatever problems you've got with them, you need to put them to bed – I can't have you doing this, Sherlock, they're my _team_."

"They're idiots." The words were tightly clipped. Forced.

"They're my idiots." Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets and dodged a woman pushing a baby buggy. "Look, whatever problem you have with them, bring it to me. I can work with you. I can clear a room, or send Anderson for coffee… Whatever you need."

"It's not…" Sherlock began, but he cut himself off with a wordless snarl of frustration.

"What?" Lestrade pressed, glancing at the detective. He took in the pale features, the wide, searching eyes. "Why do you do it, then? Why do you bait them like that? You know it's just gonna – "

"I can't turn it off!" Sherlock interrupted. "It doesn't work like that."

Lestrade saw it then. How Sherlock's eyes darted, the tremor in his hands. His uneasy posture. He was… what, nervous? Overhwhelmed? "What?" With a hand again at his arm, Lestrade pulled him into a side street, away from the foot traffic pressing in at all sides.

Sherlock pressed his palms into his temples and drew in a ragged breath. "I can't turn it on and off, like a tap. It's a _constant_. I don't _choose_ to observe, I just _do_."

Now he understood. For a moment, Greg could only stand there, gaping at him, taking him in as though seeing him for the first time. _It's a constant_. Sherlock saw everything, whether he wanted to or not. There was a person's life story in the button off a coat; the entirety of a relationship could be contained in a single keyring; and Sherlock saw it all, whether he wanted to or not. His mind was a mess of data. Everyone he met told him a tale he didn't want to know, even if he immediately deemed it irrelevant and deleted it. It wasn't Lestrade's team that was the problem, it was everyone else. A room of more than four or five people was crowded for Sherlock. Naturally, a crime scene with five bodies, an entire squad of uniformed officers, a forensic team, and an impossibly large throng of onlookers must have been positively oppressive.

The resulting headaches must have been crippling.

"They are," Sherlock replied, even as Lestrade drew breath to ask the question.

The inspector closed his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair. "Christ," he breathed. He hadn't considered it before, but it explained everything. It explained why Sherlock got tense and irritable at some crime scenes and not at others. It explained why he preferred to work from home. It explained… well, it explained a lot of things. "Sherlock, I…"

"Don't." Sherlock was leaning against the brick wall behind him now. One hand came up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He hated this, hated being seen at a weakness. It was bad enough having Mycroft around to remind him of these things. Adding another person to the mix was just… insufferable.

"No, listen," Lestrade pressed, cutting through the air with one hand in a wide gesture. "This is fine. This is _good_. This I can work with."

Sherlock dropped his hand from his face and shoved it in his pocket, fixing Lestrade with a stony expression.

"You don't like crowds." Lestrade grinned at his own diagnosis.

"It's not as – "

"Oh, yes it is. It's just that simple. And you know what? It's not the end of the world."

A thin line appeared between Sherlock's brows.

Greg's smile widened a little. Then it dimmed just a shade as he noticed Sherlock swaying. "C'mon," he said at last. "Get you home."

Sherlock hesitated for the barest of moments. "Mm – Maybe not take the main road."

"Right."

* * *

After that, Lestrade knew what to expect. He knew who to coach when things got rough between Sherlock and the team. He knew to clear a particularly crowded room when Sherlock arrived, so that the man could have a few moments of peace to think. He knew that in situations where it was unavoidable, and Sherlock started to snap, all he had to do was brush his fingers against his elbow or the hollow between his shoulder blades - lightly, discreetly. Sherlock would lock eyes with him for a moment and take one deep, slow breath. Then he'd break away and be at it again, back on track, even if the calm only lasted for a few minutes.

Lestrade just knew. He understood.

He also understood that one brief moment of eye contact was Sherlock's silent thank you. _Thank you, for understanding._


	6. In Which Lestrade Has A Nightmare

**Greg Lestrade gets nightmares. About people he cares about being shot, being hurt, being killed. Sometimes, if he's really worried, he calls Sherlock, or John, or Dimmock or Molly or Donovan or his ex-wife or whoever he's dreamed about, just to hear their voice and make sure they're still living.  
-**_**"What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"**_

* * *

"…Hello."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Lestrade."

It was half-past two in the morning. Sherlock was at 12 Southerby Avenue, on the sofa, with his laptop on his knee and his phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear. Lestrade was at 6162 Ludgate Parkway, in a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, with his fingers wrapped in a white-knuckled grip around the handset of his landline.

And normally, Lestrade would hang up as soon as the call was answered, but this time… this time was a bad one. A nightmare so lucid he was thoroughly convinced it was happening. A nightmare so incredibly vivid that when he woke, he thought it _had_ happened, and choked on his own tears for a full five minutes before he managed to separate dream from reality.

"I'm here." Sherlock's voice was full of quiet understanding and uncharacteristic comfort. His breath ghosted over the line – in, out; in, out.

"Did I wake you?" Lestrade knew the answer already, but he asked anyway. He needed to have something to say.

"No," Sherlock replied. His end of the line roared with silence, and Lestrade slowly realised it was because Sherlock _had_ been tapping away at the keyboard, but now had stopped. He could just see those long, white fingers poised over the keys as the great mind deduced him to pieces.

"Okay." Lestrade closed his eyes tight and sucked down a steadying breath. "Okay."

Sherlock didn't embarrass him with reassurances or questions. They just sat there in silence for a few moments, their breathing sending static through the line in intermittent spurts. At last, when Sherlock heard Lestrade's respiration slow to its normal rate and the rustle of sheets that indicated he had lain back down, the detective said in a quiet voice,

"Get some sleep, Greg."

And Lestrade responded with, "Yeah. Yeah, thanks." He hung up before he realised that Sherlock had used his given name for the first time in the eighteen months they had known each other.


	7. In Which Lestrade Suffers a Migraine

**A/N: We have to pretend that this fic operates in a different universe from **_**My Unfortunately Average-sized Cranium**_**, because in this one I'm implying that Sherlock knows a thing or two about migraines, and in that one he was completely clueless as to what was happening to him. So. There you have it. Please enjoy!**

* * *

When the front door opened and shut with a resounding snap, Lestrade had the distinct impression he knew who it was. He knew, because he had locked that door last night before he went to bed, and there was only one person in the bloody world who insisted on picking his locks _even though he had a key_. But why, why, _why_ was he here at half-past six in the morning?

"Sherlock," Lestrade moaned, his voice full of grief. And pain. Ouch, talking hurt. His head, that is. Hurt his head. He was starting to wonder if his brain was swelling, so intense was the pressure in his skull.

"I've called into the Yard for you," Sherlock's smooth voice said from the kitchen. There was the sound of rummaging about in cupboards. "They won't expect you at work until tomorrow at the earliest."

Lestrade groaned in displeasure and pulled the blanket further up over his head. "Why would you do that?" he asked into the downy duvet, hardly interested in the answer.

"Because you're ill," Sherlock replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

They had known each other a couple of years by now, but Lestrade wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that _thing_ he did. It seemed, at times, a lot more like psychic power than deductive reasoning.

"How," Lestrade asked slowly, as he heard Sherlock's footsteps cross the threshold of his bedroom, "would you even presume to know that?"

"Oh, it's simple. You went to bed quite early last night, which you _never_ do – usually because you're working, which you weren't, and I know because I was. Which is doubly odd, because you're always working. Then, when I broke in, you either didn't hear me picking the lock or ignored me entirely – both of which would signal some sort of incapacitation, as you typically race to the door in an attempt to beat me to opening it, because I've broken six of your locks so far."

"And…" Lestrade poked his head out from the covers and leveled a cold glare at the detective.

"_And_ all of that quite easily added up to _ill_, since the other option was injured, and I'm sure I would have heard about that." He waved it off as though it should be quite clear to any idiot with half a brain. "Now, the real question is – or rather, was – the exact nature of your apparent ailment, but I've worked that out too."

Lestrade sighed. "Enlighten me."

"Headache," he pronounced, "or so I thought at first, judging by the darkened room and the unwillingness to get out of bed, but now I'm thinking, mm, migraine? Your eye movements are quite sluggish and you seem to be more out of sorts than a normal headache would render a healthy person of your age." He paused to think for a moment, and then narrowed his eyes at the inspector. "Unless you're on drugs, which changes everything. Are you on drugs? That would be extremely hypocritical of you, and I would have to liberate them from your possession."

"That isn't funny."

"It wasn't a joke." Sherlock sniffed. "In any case. I am correct?"

"I don't know. I've never had a migraine."

"Well, how do you feel?"

"Wretched."

"Be specific."

"Sherlock…"

"Okay, let me. Photophobia, going by the drawn drapes. As I said before, abnormal eye movement response. Just stop me if I run into anything incorrect. Nausea, if your complexion is to be trusted. Headache, obvious. Can you see normally?"

"Now, yes."

"So before, no."

"Last night."

"Right. Migraine!"

"Thank you, Doctor Holmes. Please go now."

Sherlock pretended to be shocked. "Why, Lestrade! And leave you like this! Please." He twirled on his heel and marched away, and there was the sound of the tea things being readied in the kitchen.

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut.

A few minutes later, Sherlock had returned with tea and toast, and set them on the bedside table. Lestrade found the will to crack his eyes open, and looked at the tray suspiciously.

"It isn't going to bite," Sherlock said quietly.

"I never know with you," he sighed. "You're not experimenting on me, are you?" He sat up, pressing his left hand against his forehead as the headache redoubled its efforts.

"No." Sherlock looked faintly hurt, but it would not have been the first time Lestrade had been an unwitting participant in some experiment or another. (_Well, there's no need to get upset, I've had the antidote right here all along! _No. Just… no.)

"Then why on earth has Sherlock Holmes just made me tea and toast?"

"Because it'll help." There was a distinctly unspoken _you idiot_ tagged on at the end of that sentence.

"Not making sense," the DI said around a bite of (frankly, marvelous) toast.

Sherlock's eyebrows sailed somewhere into the vicinity of his hairline and he inclined his head. Waiting, ever so patiently, for the stupid policeman to catch up.

"Oh," Lestrade said as he realised it. "They don't let you onto crime scenes without me."

The world's only consulting detective grinned. Exactly, exactly! Without Lestrade, he couldn't visit the crime scene from the case that opened yesterday, and he definitely needed to collect more evidence. He could just drag a very ill Lestrade out there as his chaperone and make him suffer through it, but then he'd be risking making his condition worse or causing a recurrence – and suppose he was entirely out of it on a day when Sherlock really, _really_ needed access to police files or to a fresh scene? No, no; it was better to sacrifice one day of work to make sure Lestrade recovered one-hundred per-cent, rather than possibly have to put up with the potentially disastrous consequences that would result from prolonging his illness.

And, though he'd never admit it at this juncture, there might have been some part of him that actually wanted Greg to feel better.

Maybe.

"So tea and toast'll fix me?" Lestrade enquired as he sipped at a much-too-sweet cup of Earl Grey.

"Well, close enough. The caffeine in the tea will stimulate blood flow, which should ease your pain somewhat. Migraines are caused by a constriction of the blood vessels in the brain – or so it's thought. The toast will settle your stomach without irritating it, and you'll sleep better if you're full. And this…" He snatched a bottle of paracetamol from beneath the bedside table. "…this will also help with the headache. Which I'm certain I need not explain." He placed a couple of tablets in the inspector's hand.

"Hm," said Lestrade, tossing back the medicine with his tea. He winced at the pain caused by the sudden movement and considered his detective-turned-nurse. Sherlock certainly had an odd way of caring.

"What?"

Lestrade shrugged and set his empty teacup down. "I didn't say anything." He settled back into the pillows.

"You're looking at me."

"I'm not allowed to look at you? You're in my bedroom."

"You're looking at me… oddly."

"I wasn't."

"You were. Don't get any ideas. I already told you, I need you, for… crime scenes."

"Mm-hm. Crime scenes."

"Yes! So hurry up and stop being so… boring…" It was a lame rebuttal, but Lestrade wasn't really listening anyway.

"Of course, Sherlock." He smiled pleasantly and closed his eyes, burrowing deeper under the bedclothes.

And if Sherlock stayed the whole day, drawing blinds and tiptoeing about and making tea, well… neither of them ever mentioned it.


	8. In Which Lestrade Plays Doctor

The scene was one of chaos. The area swarmed with police officers and paramedics. The casualties were few in number, but the injuries were gruesome enough that the small number of available paramedics were forced to triage the wounded. Lestrade stood in the middle of the destruction, eyes scanning the scene for any sign of Sherlock. After a panicked minute, he spotted him seated in the open back of an ambulance, his posture one of defeat and his eyes dead as he stared out at the confusion. Greg allowed himself a moment of relief, but it was short-lived – it was never a good sign when Sherlock was sitting still at a crime scene. Sherlock was the one who found order in this type of chaos, and he should have been giving a very animated statement to any police officer who would listen. That he was staring straight ahead, unseeingly focussed on the middle distance, gave Lestrade a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't right. It wasn't _Sherlock_. Steeling himself for the worst, he strode over.

Sherlock didn't react as the DI approached. Lestrade could see as he drew closer that Sherlock was trembling. He touched his shoulder lightly and waited the full two seconds it took for Sherlock to turn his head toward him. The detective said nothing, only stared at Lestrade blankly, recognition sparking only vaguely behind his eyes.

Drugged.

"Shit," Lestrade murmured. He looked around for someone to bitch at, but there was no one. Likely they had given Sherlock a cursory examination, medicated him for pain, and then run off to help pull the more severely injured out of the rubble of the destroyed building. It was the right thing to do, it was protocol at its best, but Sherlock never did fall under 'normal' jurisdiction of any kind, did he?

"Tried to tell them," Sherlock mumbled, his words slurred from the effects of the drug. Probably diazepam, probably a high dosage because of his resistance.

"I know," Lestrade replied. He scratched at the back of his head, unsure what to do. Reaching out, he peered at Sherlock's injuries. He was no doctor, but nothing appeared life-threatening. Some cuts and bruises, maybe a dislocated shoulder from the way he was cradling his arm. Sherlock probably ought to go to hospital just in case of internal injury, but he knew that if he did, they would admit him for the night and drug him further - and Sherlock would fight, and they would pump more drugs into him, and before long he would be dealing with an addled mess of a man about to relapse back into old, destructive habits. And he was doing so well. Greg wasn't sure that the small risk of internal injury was enough to put Sherlock back into that state.

After another moment's hesitation, Lestrade closed the space between them and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist. "Come on," he said softly. "Quick as you can, before they notice us."

Sherlock looked confused, but obediently slid off the back of the ambulance. His knees refused to support him, but Greg caught him before he fell, setting him right and helping him walk with a strong arm around him. "Kidnapping a patient..." Sherlock teased, the ghost of a smile teasing the corner of his lips.

"You want to go to hospital?" Lestrade retorted as he helped Sherlock into the passenger seat of his car. When he was met with silence, he gave a single nod. "Yeah, I thought not."

Gravel crunched under the tyres as they pulled away from the scene.

"Don't you need... to wrap up...?" Sherlock was trying to formulate a more direct question, but his brain was not cooperating. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the car seat.

"Donovan can handle it," Lestrade replied. "That was pretty foolish, you know. You should have called and let us take care of it."

"Would have gotten away."

"So you went after him, and he brought a building down on top of you and several civilians."

"Got him, didn't I?" The car sailed over a pothole and Sherlock grunted in pain. "Would have been... a lot more _civilians_... if I hadn't..."

Lestrade winced. "Yeah, I remember the threat. Still, you can't just go off on your own. It isn't safe. It isn't _legal_."

"Noted." Sherlock's voice was alarmingly faint.

At the next intersection, Lestrade looked at him. Reached over and shook his shoulder. "Don't fall asleep. You probably have a concussion or something."

"Doubtful."

Of the two, Lestrade's place was closer, so that was where they went. Sherlock didn't argue - he either lacked the strength or the conviction. They made an odd pair, stumbling up the stairs to Lestrade's flat: Sherlock practically pinned between Lestrade's body and the banister, one arm slung across Lestrade's shoulders as the DI kept a firm arm around Sherlock's waist. Lestrade muttered quiet encouragement as they went. The words 'almost there' passed his lips more than once, and Sherlock growled in frustration at the failure of his limbs to obey.

When they finally passed the threshold, Lestrade was all but dragging Sherlock inside. He kicked the door shut with his heel and grunted when Sherlock tried to pull away and make for the sofa. "Bathroom," he directed, tightening his grip on the detective. They stumbled awkwardly down the hall, and Lestrade deposited Sherlock against the vanity. "Up."

Obediently, Sherlock sat himself on the counter. He leaned back against the mirror and his chin dipped to his chest. He probably could have fallen asleep right then and there, if he'd been allowed. As it was, his eyes were already starting to close when Lestrade nudged him.

"Take your shirt off," the DI was ordering gently, readying a first aid kit he had retrieved from a hall closet. When Sherlock only stared blankly at him, Lestrade paused and looked up. He reached out and tapped his face gingerly. "Sherlock. Your shirt."

A few slow blinks later, Sherlock seemed to comprehend. He directed his gaze downward to the ruined shirt that clung to his body with sweat and blood. His fingers started at the buttons, but they were clumsy and numb and did not cooperate.

Lestrade let him work at it for a few seconds before he intervened, gently brushing the slender hands away and deftly undoing the buttons himself. He smirked slightly as Sherlock dropped his hands back down onto the counter with a grunt. As unsettling as it was to see Sherlock this docile, it certainly was convenient for getting him to cooperate. "Careful," he murmured as Sherlock shrugged out of the ruined garment. It ended up in a pile on the floor as Lestrade surveyed the damage.

The shoulder that Greg had originally thought dislocated was only badly bruised, but the cuts that dotted Sherlock's torso were littered with bits of glass. He had a similar laceration on the back of his head and another marring his cheek, but he was otherwise in one piece. The DI sighed in relief.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as Greg ran his fingers up and down his ribcage. The question seemed poised out of curiosity rather than concern. He didn't appear to mind the examination, but it did perplex him.

Sherlock Holmes, perplexed by a very ordinary gesture: astounding.

"Making sure you haven't broken anything. Does it hurt?"

"No."

Lestrade's fingers swept over Sherlock's collarbones and then down his arms. He palpated the small bones of his wrists and hands.

"Ankle hurts," Sherlock said, and though the words were soft, Lestrade was startled. He looked up and saw that Sherlock had sat up a little from the mirror and was looking rather green.

"Which one?"

Sherlock pointed.

Lestrade knelt and folded back a trouser leg. Sure enough, there was a sizable piece of glass sticking out of Sherlock's sock just above the nub of bone on the outer side of his ankle. "Well…" Lestrade said slowly, unsure of himself.

"You can take it out," Sherlock said, blinking owlishly down at him. "No major blood vessels there. Won't bleed to death."

"It'll hurt. If we go to the hospital, they could—"

"Drugged," the detective reminded him. "Won't be that bad."

Humming his consent, Lestrade took the tweezers in his left hand and steadied himself before clamping down on the glass. He wondered if he ought to count to three. He had no idea how deeply the shard was buried – it could be quite a bit more serious than Sherlock's drug-addled brain thought.

"Go on," Sherlock said, peeking down at him from above.

_One, two, three_. The glass slid out with relative ease, and Sherlock only responded with a vague groan. The blood flowed freely, and Lestrade reached for a towel, clamping it down over the affected joint with one hand and using the other to hold up the glass for inspection. "Wasn't that deep," he observed, turning the shard over and over. He glanced past it toward Sherlock, and frowned. "Are you going to be sick?"

"Hm… No."

Lestrade wasn't convinced. He set the piece of glass down on the counter and flicked open the cabinet beneath the sink, retrieving a wastepaper bin and a step-stool from beneath. He set the empty bin down on the floor and kicked the step-stool behind and beneath himself so that he could sit and not kill his knees.

The bleeding started to slow after a torturously long minute. Lestrade peeled the towel back and reached for the antiseptic and a bandage, working carefully. He was absorbed with this work and blinked in surprise when he felt Sherlock's head come forward to rest against the top of his own.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"How did you know it was Galbraith?"

A breath whispered through Lestrade's hair. "Turnips."

"Turnips?"

"Yes." A pause, and then, "Hyacinth."

"Hyacinth?" Lestrade frowned.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "Your hair."

"Oh." Greg wasn't sure how he felt about his hair smelling of hyacinth. Seemed like a girly scent, and he found himself glancing motionlessly toward the bath at the shampoo bottle that stood on the edge. It was most assuredly for men, and yet Sherlock had picked out and settled upon the one feminine undertone in the lab-created scent of his shampoo. Somehow, this seemed incredibly appropriate, given who he was dealing with. Lestrade pressed a bandage around Sherlock's ankle and carefully shifted out from beneath him, pushing him back against the mirror with two hands on his shoulders.

Each new shard of glass ended up in the sink with the most delicate _clink_ against the porcelain. Sherlock was silent through all but the most gruesome of the wounds, his breathing slow and even as he watched Lestrade from beneath heavy lids.

Lestrade cast furtive glances at his charge in between bandages.

"You could've been killed, you know," he said in a soft voice. The realisation was sudden and terrifying. Of course, it wasn't the first time Sherlock had risked his life for The Work, but it _was_ the first time Lestrade had not been there.

Sherlock blinked back at him.

"You have to tell me," Lestrade said. _Clink_. "When you do something like that. I need to know." _Clink_. "I'm already pushing it letting you in at all, and if you were to get yourself killed in pursuit of a suspect…" _Clink._

"It would be a lot of paperwork," Sherlock replied. He was well aware that they were not talking about the Yard. _I'm already pushing it letting you in_.

"Yes," Lestrade agreed very slowly. "A lot of paperwork." He glanced up just in time to catch the small smile that Sherlock tried to hide.

They fell silent after that.

After an hour, Sherlock was relatively clean and bandaged, and the sink was full of glass and debris and discarded bandage and bloody towels. The night's events and the effects of the drug had sapped all of Sherlock's energy, and he did not protest when he found himself dumped into Lestrade's bed. Greg helped him out of his torn trousers with a clinical touch and piled a few extra blankets onto the wan, shivering form. As he turned to go, a hand slithered out from beneath the covers and wrapped around his wrist.

He stopped, turned to look down at the young man in his bed.

The grip on his wrist tightened for half a second, thumb pressing into his pulse point before slackening and falling away.

Lestrade smiled wearily and turned to leave, but paused at the door. "You're welcome," he whispered.


	9. In Which They Both Drink

**A/N: This chapter takes place very early in Lestrade and Sherlock's relationship. (Remember, these are in no particular order, so don't be surprised by my apparent time travel.) Please enjoy!**

* * *

The worst was over. The suspect was in custody and the police were starting to tape off the area to collect evidence. Case closed, or it would be, officially, by morning. And before too much longer, a cold-blooded killer would be behind bars for the rest of his life. Lestrade counted it as a very productive week, and even better: the next day was his day off. It just doesn't get much better than that.

Sherlock was still catching his breath, leaning against a wall well away from the most crowded areas of the scene. The red and blue of the police cars' lights cast his face in an eerie glow as he bent over slightly, bracing his hands on his knees as he sucked down deep breaths in an attempt to return his heart rate to normal.

"All right?" Lestrade asked as he approached, his own voice somewhat breathless. The chase had been intense, and tested both of their endurance, but Sherlock had run the greater distance and eventually tackled a man to the ground.

The consulting detective only nodded, straightening slightly to rest his head back against the wall behind him.

Lestrade wiped sweat from his brow and glanced around at the scene. The work that remained was simple enough, basic forensics. Anderson could handle it. He looked to Sherlock. "Wanta get a drink?"

This seemed to blindside Sherlock, and for a moment he didn't respond, blinking at Lestrade as though he didn't understand. When he finally concluded that the DI was asking him to a social outing, he shook his head vigourously. "I don't drink."

Admittedly, Lestrade had a little trouble believing that Sherlock – a man who smoked like a chimney and was _probably_ a drug user – didn't drink. His surprise must have shown on his face. "Never?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Come on," Lestrade said, grinning fiendishly. "You can have a milkshake or something. On me. Let's go."

Sherlock did not have 'a milkshake or something' and truthfully, he probably should have resisted with a little more drive.

* * *

"It's _elementary_, Lestrade," Sherlock was saying an hour and a half later, gesturing with a cigarette in one hand and clinging to a Cotswold with the other. His thin mouth was stretched in a grin, eyelids flickering dangerously as he rolled his eyes. "It's… _physics_. You could understand if you tried, but you don't try. Nobody… nobody tries." He listed in his chair, just a bit, and then caught himself on the edge of the bar. This was enormously funny, apparently, and Sherlock chuckled in a voice a few octaves higher than his normal one.

"How many of those have you had?" Lestrade demanded, realising he had not been keeping track. He glanced at his own glass, suddenly very aware that Sherlock's drinks weren't the only ones he'd lost count of.

Sherlock sucked on the filter of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke into the air above before leveling a slightly bloodshot gaze at Lestrade. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What is it… with your hair?" he asked somberly.

"My… what?"

"Your hair!"

"_My_ hair? Have you looked at yours?"

Sherlock burst out laughing, nodding in a _you have a point_ sort of way, and Lestrade soon joined in. After a few more inane hair-related comments, Lestrade broke in with a question that had been bugging him for weeks, but which he hadn't had the courage to ask, until this point. Sherlock was considerably less intimidating when drunk.

"How old are you, anyway?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked like he was thinking about it. He licked his lips and considered the lacquered surface of the bar. Then a slow smile broke across his face and he lifted his eyes once more to his drinking partner. "Nice try."

"I don't know anything about you, you know." Lestrade lit a cigarette and regarded the detective mildly. They had only been working together for just over a month, and 'working together' was a loose term at best. Strictly speaking, Sherlock didn't work for the Yard. He wasn't compensated in any way, and his consultations were completely off the books.

"I like it that way," Sherlock stated, dragging out the word 'like' for a beat too long. "How old are _you_?"

"Forty," Lestrade answered readily. He sipped his beer and waited for a reaction. People always told him that he looked younger than his age – owing, probably, to his lack of grey hair. It was still wonderfully dark and thick and (as Sherlock had already pointed out) a bit unruly. So he expected that Sherlock would be surprised to learn that he was well past the thirty-five years that most people estimated him to be. But there was no reaction whatever, only a nod. Lestrade's face crumpled. "You already knew."

"I deduced."

"Then why'd you ask?"

Sherlock's face smoothed into an expression of wonder. "I… I don't know."

This, of course, was endlessly hilarious.

* * *

"You're a bloody awful singer."

"I am not! I'm ext… ext… extrao... mm, wonderful."

"You're drunk."

Sherlock could not argue with that, being that he was stumbling down the street despite being normally quite graceful. "Yes," he hiccupped. "I suppose so. But I am still a w-wonderful singer. Oh!" He tripped over his own shoes and threw an arm around Lestrade's neck to catch himself. Lestrade stumbled a couple of steps, then slipped an arm about Sherlock's waist, and the two of them decided without speaking that it might be best not to separate, lest one of them fall into a storm drain.

"Right musical genius you are," Lestrade snickered.

"I am. You may be interested to know, Gregory Michael Lestrade, that I am a composer."

"I play the guitar," Lestrade countered.

"Violin," replied Sherlock.

"Really!"

"Really." Sherlock turned to look at the DI, his face silhouetted in profile by the streetlamps. "You played rugby in high school."

"Yes. I was – "

"—Sensational," Sherlock finished. "I know. You also drove a red BMW, failed chemistry, and took art classes in the summer. You don't know how to swim, and you prefer custard creams over other biscuits whenever possible. Your sister lives in Dorset. And you can sing. Considerably better than I can."

Lestrade was so surprised that he stumbled, his arm slipping from Sherlock's slender waist. He caught himself on the wall of a nondescript brick building and stared in amazement at the consulting detective. "How…"

Sherlock blinked, catlike, in the light of the lamps.

"I thought you deleted useless information."

"I do."

Neither of them spoke after that.

* * *

Lestrade woke the next morning fully at the mercy of his hangover. He didn't remember arriving home, but was relieved to find himself in one piece, fully clothed, alone in his bed. The last thing he needed to go along with this headache was the awkward dismissal of a drunken lover he'd never meant to take in the first place. Groaning, he forced himself upright and dragged his fingers through his hair, which was comically sticking up in all directions.

Struggling to remember the events of the night before, he stumbled out to the sitting room. And stopped in shock when he noticed the gangly body sprawled over his sofa. It took him several minutes and a very cautious closer inspection to realise that it was Sherlock Holmes. He crept toward the sleeping figure and bent low, scrutinising the pale face in the golden glow of the morning sun. His features were relaxed in repose – something Lestrade had never seen before – lips parted around slow, even breaths. His hair was a curly mess atop his head – more so than usual – and he had thrown one arm up over his forehead. The other hung off the sofa, knuckles nearly brushing the floor. The sofa, Lestrade noticed, was too short for the lanky frame, and Sherlock's knees were bent to accommodate, socked feet buried somewhere between the arm of the sofa and the cushion. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, leaving a swath of porcelain skin exposed to the air.

Then his eyes snapped open and Lestrade practically leapt backward with a hasty, "Sorry."

"What for?" Sherlock had closed his eyes once more, almost immediately upon opening them, and now he was pinching the bridge of his nose in a pain response most likely elicited by the intrusive sunlight streaming in through the window.

"Nothing. Coffee?" Lestrade was already moving toward the kitchen.

"God, yes." There was a pause while Sherlock pried his eyelids open and took in his surroundings. It took him longer than normal to deduce that he was in Lestrade's flat, probably owing to the intensity of the headache that had settled behind his forehead. He'd never been here before. He didn't remember coming here last night. He groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position. "What _happened_?"

Lestrade didn't answer for a few minutes, but emerged shortly with two steaming mugs in hand, and offered one to Sherlock. "You don't remember?" he asked curiously.

"No."

"Probably better that you don't." Lestrade smothered his grin in a sip of coffee and dropped himself down onto the sofa beside the consulting detective. Both of their drinks sloshed a little. "You were singing, you know."

"Preposterous."

"No, really. You aren't bad, actually." He nudged Sherlock's ribs with his elbow.

"This is why I don't drink," Sherlock said very firmly. Silence engulfed the two men as they focussed on downing their coffee as quick as its scalding temperature would allow, in an attempt to wake up and disperse their roaring headaches. As the caffeine did its job, both of them slowly relaxed, shoulder-to-shoulder, against the back of the sofa. Sherlock's eyes were on a painting on the other side of the room, apparently taking it apart brushstroke by brushstroke. Lestrade was fixated on the sight of Sherlock's shoes beneath his coffee table.

At last, after a full fifteen minutes of amicable quiet, Sherlock spoke softly and without taking his eyes off the painting. "I'm twenty-eight."

Lestrade felt a wave of guilt pass through him and his eyes flicked unconsciously toward the side table where Sherlock had abandoned his keys and wallet. "I know."

"How do you know?"

"I deduced."

Sherlock hid his smile behind the rim of his coffee cup.


	10. In Which Sherlock Has a Phobia

Sherlock was tense. When his long fingers weren't wrapped rigidly around the armrests, he fidgeted – with the clasp on the tray table, with his boarding pass, with his seatbelt. He mumbled about the cabin being 'unbearably cold' and complained that eight hours was far too long to be denied a cigarette. Finally, after almost an hour, Lestrade could take no more, and closed his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, which was tight and cold.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, bemused.

The detective only stared back, tight-lipped. The aircraft pitched violently as it passed through a turbulent pocket of cloud, and the colour drained from his face.

Lestrade's eyebrows slid up his forehead. He tried very hard to look serious, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. "So... you don't like flying?"

"Did I say that?"

"No, but it doesn't take any great powers of _deduction_ to see that you're nervous." Lestrade's fingers twitched against the inside of Sherlock's wrist, rubbing gently at the soft flesh there, just once, before he let go. "So then – give me. Is it the height, the turbulence, what?"

"It defies logic that this contraption should stay in the air when so many other forces are working to pull it down," Sherlock blurted in a rush, as though he had repeated this thought in his mind several times over.

"Ah-huh," murmured Lestrade. He fumbled in the seatback pocket for a moment, and then clumsily pulled out a pair of headphones. He held them out to Sherlock. When he didn't accept them, he dropped them in his lap. "Remind me again why we're on this plane in the first place, if you hate it so much," he said, as he plugged the headphone jack into the port on the armrest.

"Because William Hudson murdered an American in Orlando, and the idiots on that jury are about to let him off."

"Any point reminding you just how far out of my jurisdiction that is?"

"Irrelevant. Private client."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pressed a button on the screen mounted to the back of the seat in front of his companion. "Then why am _I_ here?"

Sherlock fixed him with a level gaze. "You know why."

"Tell me anyway."

"Because if I show up alone, with no authority save my vastly superior intelligence, they won't listen. But with the backing of Scotland Yard..." He flapped a hand.

"Right," Greg said. He nodded toward the headset in Sherlock's lap. "Put those on."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though the ever-suspicious _Why_ was on his lips, but if it was, he swallowed it. Almost grudgingly, he did as he was told.

"Good." Lestrade's mouth twitched again, and he navigated through a menu on the touch screen. His fingers moved too rapidly to keep track of what he was doing, so Sherlock didn't try. Finally, Greg seemed to find what he'd been looking for, uttering a satisfied "Ah!" as he made his selection.

Mozart's Symphony No. 31 began to play, and Sherlock's eyes glazed over. "Oh," he breathed. He was silent for a few moments, expression distant and lips parted. After a time, he slipped one of the tiny speakers away from his ear and blinked over at Lestrade.

"I had to teach you how to text," he said in a voice made quiet by the music playing in the other ear. "How did you know how to do that?"

Lestrade shrugged. "It's a self-explanatory system."

Sherlock was silent, but didn't look away.

Greg caved. "I've travelled a bit."

"Mm," Sherlock thrummed, and he seemed to accept this answer. His fingers brushed against Greg's arm as he lifted his hand to replace his headset, and he slowly eased back against his chair. The tension lifted from his narrow shoulders. His eyes fell shut, but his left hand discreetly conducted the symphony from his lap.

Lestrade wore something that resembled a smug grin as he settled back for a good, long nap.


	11. In Which Lestrade Remembers

**Rebecca.**

_-"**What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"**_

* * *

Somewhere along the way, they got to the point where they stopped calling or knocking, and started just walking into one another's flats at all hours. To this day, neither of them is sure when it happened, but happen it did. Lestrade often woke in the mornings to find Sherlock sprawled across his sofa. Sherlock frequently returned home in the evenings to see Lestrade in his kitchen. Sometimes they chatted. If it was about a case, Sherlock joined in eagerly. If it was about the day-to-day, mostly Lestrade talked and Sherlock listened. Other times they didn't say anything at all.

* * *

It was mid-September. The night was chilly and the wind bit icily, foretelling of an early and uncompromising winter to come. Sherlock shouldered the door to his one-bedroom on Southerby Avenue, grateful for the scant heat the radiator provided, and noticed Lestrade on his threadbare sofa as he stripped off his coat and scarf. "Evening," he greeted mildly, entirely unsurprised to see the DI there. He hung up his outdoor things and toed off his shoes, wriggling them into the carpet to work some warmth into them.

Lestrade had not said anything. This was concerning, as normally Sherlock could not get the man to shut up.

The flat was dark. It was after ten in the evening, and the streetlights outside did little to illuminate the dark recess that Sherlock called home. He flicked the switch on, frowning as his eyes scanned Lestrade in the flood of light that followed.

Being no great reader of people's emotions, Sherlock could still tell that something was not quite right. Lestrade was seated in the middle of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor, jacket still on. His hands hung limply between his knees, and he was _staring_. Off into space. His expression, if it could be called that, was vacant and yet closed off. There were dark circles round his normally vibrant eyes, and he hardly reacted to either Sherlock's arrival or to the light.

Sherlock's first thought was that he was ill, but another quick sweep told him that wasn't it, either. He approached cautiously, unsure what to make of this lump that had replaced the detective-inspector. "Lestrade," he prompted quietly. No response. "Gregory."

Slowly, the DI tore his eyes away from whatever was holding his attention and dragged his gaze up the length of the detective looming before him.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked flatly.

The vacant expression crumbled into something that resembled despair, and Sherlock wanted to pluck the question out of the air and swallow it back down. _Should I have known not to ask? _he wondered as he watched a muscle work in Lestrade's jaw. He looked like he might have been trying to come up with an answer, an explanation for his bizarre behaviour. Whatever it was, it didn't want to be vocalised. _That_ was something Sherlock _did _understand.

Without another word, Sherlock stepped around the low coffee table and sat down next to Lestrade. The tension seemed to seep out of the DI's shoulders torpidly, as though Sherlock were soaking it up but it was reluctant to go. Finally, Lestrade seemed to give in to whatever was plaguing him, and he sat back with a sigh. He leaned into the wan figure at his side, letting his head fall onto Sherlock's shoulder.

Sometimes they passed entire evenings saying nothing at all.


	12. In Which Lestrade Attempts Breakfast

**A/N: Trigger warning – food issues.**

* * *

"You don't _what_?" Greg was incredulous, alarmed, concerned, and frankly, a little disturbed.

Sherlock's response was flat and disinterested, by comparison. "Digestion slows me down." He said this as though it were obvious, and that Lestrade was an idiot for suggesting otherwise. The only problem was that the situation at hand was setting up a good basis for Lestrade's argument and simultaneously knocking down Sherlock's curt defence.

"You _have_ to eat."

With cautious slowness, Sherlock straightened somewhat from where he was sitting on the kerb with his head between his knees. By now his face had regained what little colour it had originally had, and his eyes were clearer. "No," he said, "I don't."

Greg nearly laughed. Nearly. He dropped down to Sherlock's level, kneeling in the street, and dipped his head to catch the consulting detective's eye. "You fainted at a crime scene," he pointed out, ignoring the nose-wrinkle of disgust that Sherlock made at the word _faint_. "Think that pretty much disproves your theory there, kid." He frowned, watching the other's face attentively. Come to think of it, Sherlock didn't seem to eat much of anything on a regular basis. No wonder he was so stick-thin. The only two things he consumed with alacrity were cigarettes and morphine – neither of which were very sustaining.

The obvious question of _why _did come up, but Lestrade didn't voice it. The more pressing concern at the moment was getting some food into him. They could work out the rest later. "Come on," he ordered gruffly, holding a hand out to help Sherlock up off the ground. "Let's get you something to eat, and we'll come back to the case later."

Sherlock stood without Lestrade's help. He gave a toss of wild curls and a huff of impatience before he said, "There's work to be done, Lestrade. If I stop to – hey!"

Lestrade was hauling him toward his car by the arm, and not gently.

"Lestrade!"

"Shut it," the DI ordered.

"This is ridiculous, and a colossal waste of valuable time. Let me go."

"No."

"Unhand me!"

"Dammit, Sherlock!" Greg's firm hand transferred from Sherlock's arm to fist the front of his shirt as they approached the car. He pushed him back against the side of the vehicle considerably harder than he'd intended to, but the effect was marvelous. He had the detective's full attention now. "You cannot go around collapsing at crime scenes and expect me to just accept it," he snapped. "Did it ever occur to you, you aren't the only one you're hurting?" Lestrade said this without quite realising it in time, and could feel his face flush angrily as the words hung between them. He recovered quickly: "A colossal waste of time would be having to take you to hospital because your blood sugar's low, or you're dehydrated, or you haven't slept in a year."

Sherlock stared back at the narrowed brown eyes, his own grey ones full of defiance just waiting to spill over. He growled low in his throat, bristling at the invasion of Lestrade's proximity and the obvious fact that Greg had been paying attention enough to notice things, or to care. To _care_. Bloody hell, when did it come to this? "Who do you think you are?"

"Get in."

"I am not your child to order about. Let me go."

"Get. In. The fucking. Car." _Before I cuff you_.

Sherlock arched one brow challengingly. _Would you_? A breath caught in his throat. Would Lestrade go so far? Could he? And if he did – what then?

For what seemed like an eternity, the two men stood there outside of Lestrade's sedan. They must have looked ridiculous to anyone who happened to notice – the two of them pressed close together, Lestrade with a hand splayed against Sherlock's chest to keep him from taking off, and Sherlock with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Their eyes burned into one another, each of them trying to read the other. Would Sherlock take off if he had the opportunity? Would Lestrade cuff him if he thought so? Just where was the line drawn? It was a test of their relationship, and all because of a few skipped meals.

_Ridiculous_.

Reluctantly, Sherlock slunk into the passenger seat.

* * *

The ride was silent all the way to Ludgate Parkway. Lestrade's knuckles were white around the wheel as he drove. _You're not his father,_ he reminded himself. _You're not responsible for him. In fact, you're probably pushing all known limits of legality by forcing him to get in the damn car. _He fumed silently and stared at the road with enough fury to light it aflame. _Yeah, well,_ he smouldered, _maybe if he took care of himself, I wouldn't feel the need to. _

Truth be told, Lestrade was partly angry at himself. How long had they been working together? And he hadn't noticed Sherlock starving himself? In fairness, he supposed he had probably seen the signs a long time ago, but ignored them or simply didn't put them together. Maybe Sherlock had even purposefully steered him clear of figuring it out. Still, he had a hard time forgiving himself for not realising what was going on way before this.

They had argued about this sort of thing before. About going to hospital when there's glass sticking out of you, about taking a day off when you're sick, about sleeping properly and laying off the cocaine. But never had it come this close to an all-out fist fight. Why? Perhaps Lestrade had finally come to the end of his rope. Perhaps he cared more now than he'd realised. Perhaps he was sick and tired of taking care of Sherlock.

Nausea curled around Lestrade's gut. That last one wasn't true. He wasn't sick and tired of it, far from it. He needed to feel... needed. But, hell, it was a fucking roller coaster sometimes, to be needed by Sherlock Holmes.

"It isn't what you think," Sherlock said at last, as they turned into Lestrade's neighbourhood. He slid down his seat and didn't take his eyes off the window.

Lestrade glanced over, abandoning his introspection for the moment. "Yeah? Then what is it?"

"It varies. Sometimes I forget. Other times I can't be bothered with it. The Work comes first. The Work always comes first."

"Transport," Lestrade finished for him. Bitterness edged into his voice. "Everything else is transport. Yeah, I know."

Sherlock looked over sharply. "Then... you didn't..."

"What?"

"Nothing." Sherlock's eyes snapped back to the window as though magnetically drawn there. He didn't move as Lestrade's car bumped up the small drive and stopped in front of his modest house.

Lestrade put it in park and looked over, watching, waiting.

"Mycroft tried to have me diagnosed with an eating disorder," the consulting detective stated at last, softly, without meeting the DI's eyes.

"It isn't far off," Greg mused aloud, and his voice had softened for the first time since Sherlock's episode at the crime scene. "Digestion doesn't really slow you down. That's just something you're telling yourself." He shrugged. "I'm not a doctor, but I don't agree with your brother's diagnosis. Doesn't seem like something you'd do. But what you _are_ doing isn't healthy, either."

Sherlock's lips thinned as he pressed them together, but he didn't argue. Lestrade counted it as a success for the time being. In an effort to drop the subject, the DI unbuckled his seatbelt and took the keys out of the ignition. "Up you get," he prompted, nudging Sherlock's knee with a knuckle. "Breakfast. I'll cook."

* * *

As it turned out, Lestrade was not a good cook. His repeated attempts at poaching eggs were laughable to the point of being tragic, and Sherlock eventually shouldered him out of the way, banishing him to the other side of the stove to tend to a rasher of bacon that was sizzling happily in a fry pan. Sherlock told him he couldn't possibly mess that up, and Lestrade hoped he was right.

For a little while, they didn't speak as they worked on their respective projects. Sherlock's focus seemed to be completely absorbed in poaching eggs while Lestrade poked uncertainly at the bacon. Occasionally Sherlock glanced over and gave him curt instructions - "Flip that one" or "Turn the heat down" - but mostly they were silent as the kitchen filled with the sounds and smells of cooking food.

The toaster popped as Sherlock lifted an egg from the boiling water.

"You're a hypocrite," the detective stated without prelude, adding more vinegar to his saucepan and tipping in another egg.

"Oh?" Lestrade knew it was true at times, but he was curious why Sherlock thought so.

"Yes." Beat. Sherlock slid a wooden spoon into the boiling water and folded egg white in on itself with the care and precision of an artist at work. "For all the preaching you do about being mindful of one's health, you seem very lax about following your own advice."

Lestrade grinned. "I have you for that."

Silence. It was the first time he had ever said something like that to Sherlock. Their relationship was singular, unique, undefined – and never the topic of their conversations. Lestrade watched as Sherlock stiffened, watched as a thousand unsaid things flashed across his stony face, as he collected and analysed the data presented to him.

"Shit, sorry," Greg stammered. "I didn't mean – I wasn't trying to say – it isn't your job to-" _Ugh_. "Look, kid, I wasn't trying to put any responsibility on you, I was just – "

"It's true," Sherlock interrupted, all silken composure again. He fished the egg out of the water with a slotted spoon and placed it on a plate next to the other two. His eyes were set on his work as he cracked a fourth egg into a ramekin and tipped it into the boiling water. Lestrade couldn't help noticing the way his dark lashes fanned out over his cheeks as he stared down at the rolling waters. "I seem to recall picking you up off the floor a time or two."

The grin returned, brightening Greg's face several shades. There it was. Singular again, undefined once more. About as close to perfect as it could be, and still so far from flawless.

Sherlock looked over, his expression passive and open, lips parted as their eyes met. "Lestrade," he said slowly, after a few moments.

"Mm?"

"You are burning the bacon."

"Fuck!"


	13. In Which Lestrade Meets Mycroft

**The first time Mycroft attempts to kidnap him he refuses to get into the car.**

-"**_What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"_**

* * *

Lestrade was not feeling well. His stomach was in knots and his head was pounding. The ache in his head was probably the worst bit, deep and sharp and radiating from a spot just on the crown of his skull. He groaned aloud as he woke, blinking into bright lights and straining against something that kept his wrists fastened down to either side.

"It was a very simple request," said a honey-smooth voice from somewhere forward and above. "All you had to do was get into the car."

As Greg blinked away the stars in his vision, a man came into focus, standing before him, haloed by the fluorescent light of a factory's production floor. He was wearing an expensive business suit, and he had a narrow nose and pinched features that looked strangely familiar. He inclined his head as he spoke, eyes running up and down Lestrade's seated body. Analysing. Reading. Gathering data. He had animal eyes – avian, sharp, calculating. Missing nothing.

_My hands are tied down_, Greg realised foggily. He shook the haze from his brain. He'd been... _kidnapped_? Ah yes, he could remember now – the black car, the well-dressed men who demanded he get in the vehicle. The ensuing fight, a fight which he was winning until someone decided to fight dirty and something crashed into his skull with vicious force. "Listen," he said carefully, "I don't – "

"What, exactly, is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?" the man interrupted, shifting his weight. Lestrade noticed that he had a tall, furled umbrella in his hand, which he used like a cane.

_Who_? he thought for a moment, and then remembered – the boy. Well. Not really a boy, but he might as well have been. Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had stumbled upon him late the other night, bleeding and sleeping on an icy park bench. He was not seeing the correlation between the boy and this man.

"What?" Lestrade stammered. "I don't... I don't understand."

"Take a moment," the man offered magnanimously.

Greg did just that. He took a moment. Several. "I, uh... I've just met him. There's no, er, relationship to speak of. Why?" He became instantly suspicious. "What do you want with him?"

The aristocratic figure heaved an aristocratic sigh. "No relationship to speak of," he repeated in a voice that was simultaneously soft and yet sharp enough to cut glass. He whipped a notebook out of his inside jacket pocket and cleared his throat. "At approximately two-twenty-three AM on November the seventh, you ran into one Sherlock Holmes at Battersea Park, asleep on a bench. You not only woke him and spoke to him, but took him home. In fact, from my understanding, you allowed him to spend the night on your sitting-room sofa."

_I took him home because he was bleeding and frozen halfway to death. And he was gone in the morning. _Lestrade decided not to add these details. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

"I want to know the nature of your relationship with the boy you took home last night."

"There isn't one!" Greg returned. He was growing angry. Who was this man, and why did he know so much of his business? What kind of trouble had that Holmes dragged him into?

The man in the suit cleared his throat again and resumed patiently reading from his notebook. "He left your flat the next morning – this morning, that is – and by the evening had exchanged three text messages with you and solved one of your cold cases. Detective Inspector Lestrade, please do not waste my time. Answer the question."

"I have. Now answer mine."

Dark, stormy eyes bore into Lestrade's. "You are not an easy man to intimidate."

"I don't like bullies."

Elegant eyebrows soared – clearly the answer was unexpected. For a few moments, the man seemed to be regarding the detective inspector, re-evaluating him as though he had been given some game-changing information. After a time, he lowered himself into the empty chair that stood across from Lestrade. Then he snapped his fingers, and a figure stepped out of the shadows to undo the ropes binding Lestrade to the chair. The figure had a pronounced limp and Greg realised it was one of the men he had beaten the tar out of.

When his hands were free, Lestrade's breath came a little easier. He rubbed the welts in his wrists and leaned forward, eyeing the man in front of him. "Who are you?" he asked again, this time in a lower voice. A veiled threat. _I can hold my own, and don't you think otherwise for an instant_.

"Sherlock Holmes is my younger brother," the man said frankly. He looked very weary then, but it passed within moments, as though it had never happened. He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, both hands resting atop the handle of the upturned umbrella. "I am concerned for his well-being. His taking up with you was... surprising."

Greg could not find words. "You're... you're... Are you kidding me right now?" He huffed a laugh and shook his head. _I don't fucking believe this_. "You couldn't... Oh, gee... knock on my door? You appear to have my phone records, but you couldn't ring? E-mail? _Fax_? Post a letter –"

"That is quite enough," said Holmes the elder, holding up a palm for silence. "Discretion is of the utmost importance, and _no_, I will not be explaining myself to you."

"What the hell do you _want_?"

"To know that my brother is safe. To let _you_ know that if you harm a hair on his head, I will destroy you."

"I should arrest you."

"Good luck." The man smiled mirthlessly, a grotesque twist of the lips that was smug and arrogant and hauntingly familiar.

"I'm leaving now." Lestrade stood, and watched as the man did not stop him.

"By all means," said Holmes, rising. He took an easy breath and watched Lestrade prepare to leave with hawklike attention. "Remember," he said as Greg turned to go, "not a hair on his head."

* * *

Mycroft watched Lestrade leave, watched him stare down one of the guards on his way out, cowing the huge Eurasian man to the point of a near-bow as he opened the door for him. As the sliding door to the factory closed behind the detective-inspector, Mycroft turned to his assistant. "Make sure he is kept under surveillance. Twenty-four hours. I want to be apprised of his movements regularly."

"Sir? Wouldn't that be using a lot of resources? How do we know they're going to see each other again?"

With a barely perceptible shake of the head, Mycroft sighed. It was borderline mournful. "They will. Sherlock will seek him out." _Because he's a carbon-copy of our father, but dramatically improved. In the course of one evening, he did the one thing our father never did._

_He cared._

* * *

_**Written especially for LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate.**_


	14. In Which Sherlock Lets Go

**He used to sit on rooftops with Sherlock.**

- "**_What You Don't Know About Greg Lestrade"_**

* * *

There was a thin ribbon of smoke wafting off the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

Greg stepped out of the lift into the cold winter air, shivering within moments. The thin black line of Sherlock's silhouette was perched directly across from him on the lip of the roof. His back was to the DI, and Lestrade could observe with ease how the narrow frame expanded slightly and then contracted as he dragged from his cigarette and exhaled smoke out over London.

"Thought I might find you here," Lestrade remarked softly as he joined Sherlock on the ledge. Their feet dangled over Giltspur Street.

"Mm," thrummed Sherlock, watching out of the corner of his eye as Greg dug his cigarettes out of a pocket, tapped one out and lit it.

For two whole cigarettes, they said nothing. They smoked and shivered and shuffled closer to one another, shoulders and elbows touching as their exhaled smoke danced and merged and drifted away. Only the rustle of their coats and the soft rush of breath broke the silence. London could not wash over them here; they were literally above it. A bird hooted gently from another corner of the rooftop ledge, but even it grew bored of the silence and flapped away.

When they were both down to the filter on their second smoke, Lestrade felt Sherlock tense beside him. He looked over and saw him pulling something out of an inside jacket pocket. Silently, the detective held it out, and Lestrade opened a palm to accept it. From Sherlock's slim fingers fell a tiny, clear plastic bag packed with something white and powdery. He said nothing, didn't even look at Lestrade as he ground out his cigarette on the edge of the roof.

Greg fingered the bag and stared at it as it lay on his palm. Such a harmless little thing, smaller than a button – and yet it had nearly cost Sherlock his life, on more than one occasion. He felt a flash of anger at the sight of it, but it was extinguished by Sherlock's next words.

"That's the last of it," Sherlock said, his voice soft and almost shy in its reluctance.

Understanding swept through Lestrade's chest like a flash flood. Very slowly, he nodded but said nothing. He did not wish to spoil the moment with words. He understood what this meant. _That's the last of it_. One little bag, just enough for one fix, that Sherlock had held onto, just in case he wasn't strong enough to go through with detox. Just in case he couldn't overcome his addiction. His surrendering this last little shred of control was symbolic: he was letting go, and he wanted Lestrade to know.

Part of him wanted to say something, felt the _need_ to say something – _I'm proud of you. I can't lie, I am disappointed that you kept this at all, but I am proud of you for not giving in. I had faith in you all along. Thank you – _but he maintained his silence. They had a rule: Rooftops Are Not For Talking. Except for the most meaningless of phrases and greetings, these rendezvous points were silent. And so Greg reached out, squeezed Sherlock's shoulder, and pocketed the last of the detective's cocaine without saying a word.


	15. In Which Sherlock Loses Something

It was September. Sherlock was sprawled on Lestrade's couch with a cup of coffee clutched on his chest. His hair was still long back then, right now so long that it was tied back at the base of his skull, a little tail of dark curls trailing on the crimson throw pillow. He was wearing Lestrade's shirt, and it was too big, the cuffs hanging limply off his wrists and the collar gaping so that a wide inverted triangle of white flesh was visible at his throat.

"Say it again," Lestrade said, his words slowed by the third beer. He was sitting in a comfortable chair opposite the sofa with his legs splayed out wide in front of him, tie loosened and collar unbuttoned. His hair was disheveled, the result of a long day at the Yard. His thin lips were upturned in a half smile that crinkled his eyes. He fixed Sherlock with a steady gaze, watching as the coffee cup rose and fell with each breath. "Explain it once more."

Up, up, up went the coffee cup. "It's simple." Down, down, down. "If you look at everything as a compilation of data, you can extract information from what you are presented at any given time. A woman wearing an expensive coat may seem like a person of means, at first glance – but if you look, if you really look, you will notice things. A missing button, perhaps; a chipped manicure; maybe her bag is a knock-off brand or even a fake, Prado instead of Prada. She wears a designer coat but doesn't have it repaired when a button falls off? Lets her manicure go to pieces and buys a cheap knock-off purse? We are then left to assume that this woman is not very wealthy at all, and we can begin working out conclusions: the coat was a gift, or a one-time splurge, perhaps she is borrowing it from a friend." He paused then, readjusting his grip around the hot mug, letting the warmth burn through his finger pads and sink into his bones. "Everything is important. Everything is data."

Greg nodded. He understood what Sherlock was saying, but understanding and practising were two very different things. He was confident he would never be able to do what Sherlock just described, even though it sounded so simple. A soft chuckle fell from his lips and he shook his head, his gaze a mix of amusement and admiration. "Okay," he said, "and why did you deign to tell me this, then?"

Sherlock sighed sadly and closed his eyes. "Boredom," he confessed, then: "My violin's been stolen."

"Stolen?"

"Appropriated. As collateral for a debt owed."

Lestrade winced and took a long swig of his beer. "And whoever _appropriated_ it... Would you recognise them if you saw them again?"

"I expect I would, and will," replied Sherlock, frowning. "But the instrument is long gone. Sold, by now, the serial number filed off, untraceable."

They shared a few minutes of silence for the lost violin.

* * *

It was October. Lestrade had one hand on Sherlock's waist and the other wrapped around one of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock was pulling him this way and that, giving him soft instructions and pushing his shoulder to direct him. Together they were moving in swift, dizzying circles across Greg's sitting room floor, as Bach played in the background. _It should be a crime_, Sherlock had said, when Greg confessed that he did not know how to dance. _A waltz is a frightfully simple thing. Even you can do it_.

As the music came to a close, Sherlock stepped back from Lestrade and bowed deeply, then stood up swiftly, face flushed. He was smiling – a rare sight. "You have it," he said, a teacher passing a student. "I told you it would be simple."

Greg grinned back, childishly proud of his accomplishment. There was a moment, just one moment, where Sherlock was smiling back and they were standing there, hand in hand, winded and grinning. Happy. Genuine.

Then it was lost and Sherlock was sweeping away from him, throwing himself down on the sofa. "Why hasn't anyone been murdered today!"

* * *

It was November. Lestrade was sitting on the cold tile of his bathroom floor with his head over the toilet, his breath keening through his teeth as he tried to will his stomach to settle. Flu had been going around the office for weeks, it was inevitable that Greg should get sick, but he'd damned himself by continuing to work through the first couple days of it. Now he could hardly move, and knew full well that he'd be sick much longer than he would have been had he stayed home in the first place.

The timing was very inopportune. He had not heard from Sherlock for three days, which was (nowadays) rather unusual. The plan had been to go looking for him today, the usual places: the overpass, the park, the slums along Lynch Road.

_He can take care of himself_, Lestrade thought, trying to convince himself the boy would be fine. He shivered and fell back, resting against the edge of the bath. Maybe if he could just lie here a few minutes, gather some strength... then he could go and find him...

He put his head down on his arms and passed out cold. When he woke again, he knew it had been hours; the window above him was dark. Someone was stroking his hair, very gently, over and over from forehead to crown to the base of his neck. The fingers against his scalp were cold, ice cold, made that way by the chill outside. Lestrade opened bleary eyes to see Sherlock sitting on the lip of the bath, one hand in his lap while the other slid through Greg's hair. He was deathly pale except for the two brushstrokes of pink where the wind had bit his cheeks, and his coat was tattered and torn. His knuckles were bleeding. He had been in a fight.

"Where you been?" Lestrade grumbled, still unable to stand but watching the boy through sleep-watery eyes.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged upward, and he shook his head slowly. "Shh."

* * *

It was Christmas. Sherlock was lying on his stomach on the floor in front of Lestrade's fireplace, watching the flames dance in the grate. His long hands were wrapped around a cup of black coffee and he alternated between resting his head on the carpet and lifting up to sip from the mug. His hair was short now, wild curls that framed his face.

Lestrade lay on his back on the couch, one arm pillowing his head while the other hand was spread across his chest. The room was too hot and he was beginning to sweat, but he knew that Sherlock was chilled to the bone – Sherlock was always chilled to the bone – and so he didn't complain. The firelight glinted off his dark eyes and his hair, which was beginning to grey at the temples. Sherlock teased him about it, but he blamed the phenomenon on the boy. He'd been wonderfully dark until they'd met.

"I have something for you," Greg said over the crackle of the fire.

Lazily, Sherlock rolled over onto his back. Spread-eagle on the floor, all long limbs and messy hair, he fixed Lestrade with a quizzical look.

"It's Christmas," Greg reminded him. "I got you something."

"But I didn't – "

"Wait here." Lestrade swung his legs over the side of the couch and padded away down the hall. A closet door opened and closed and he returned bearing a rectangular box in his arms. It was beautifully wrapped – obviously not his doing – in green paper with a pretty red bow in the centre. He sat down beside Sherlock and set it on the floor between them. "Go on, then!" he encouraged, beaming.

Sherlock pushed himself upright, pulling his legs in, brushing hair out of his eyes. He glanced at Lestrade, lips parted in surprise, then his eyes fell to the neatly wrapped box on the floor. His hands were cautious, hesitant as they ran over the outside of the box, until Greg nudged him in the knee. Then he tugged at the bow, unraveling the red ribbon. He slid his fingers under the seam in the wrapping paper and pulled the box from it.

A thick, brown cardboard box now sat in Sherlock's lap. The lid was embossed in black letters that proudly read: _J & A Beare_.

The breath went out of the consulting detective then, and Lestrade's smile turned wide and proud, satisfied with the reaction his gift had received before it was even fully opened.

Sherlock looked up, grey eyes wide like clock faces. "Lestrade, I can't – "

In a flash, Lestrade was pressing a finger against the boy's lips. "Hush!" he ordered. "I had a bit saved up. Don't worry about it. Open it." He couldn't help laughing when Sherlock appeared to be frozen, a statue hovering over the elegant box, fingers poised to open it, _wanting_ to open it but so very shocked by the gift itself. "Sherlock. Please."

And then, just like that, it was open. At Greg's urging, Sherlock popped the lid off and carefully pulled away packing material, extracting from the box a beautiful, oiled leather case. Gently, he undid the gold plated clasps and flipped open the lid of the leather case. The two of them sat in reverent silence, staring down at the contents of the case.

The violin was a work of art, nestled delicately against crimson crushed velvet. It had been expertly worked and maintained, and the wood gleamed in the flickering glow of the fireplace. Flamed maple, varnished orange warmth, beautiful. The instrument had a fire of its own.

"Take it," Greg breathed, not daring to use a normal voice. His eyes were on Sherlock's face, watching the boyish wonder pass over it, the sudden and unavoidable outpouring of love.

"What should I play?" asked Sherlock in a whisper, his fingers running over the violin from scroll to tailpiece, skimming the strings.

Lestrade only smiled, an affectionate grin that crinkled the outer corners of his eyes.

Sherlock carefully lifted the instrument from its nest of velvet and set it to his shoulder, the other hand curling around the bow. He tuned the instrument swiftly and with his eyes closed, listening carefully to the sound each string made, uncharacteristically patient. Satisfied, he stood and set bow to strings, one fluid movement from floor to playing, and suddenly, music filled the flat.

Lestrade stretched out on the floor, head pillowed on his arms as the gentle notes of Nápravník's sonata for violin washed over him. He watched Sherlock as he played, as he became lost in the music, but his eyes were not on the hands expertly working the violin: they were on Sherlock's face, the smile that ghosted over his features between the allegro and the scherzo.


	16. In Which Lestrade is Afraid

"You aren't stupid. I know you aren't."

Greg's hands were soaked in blood. In fact, it was everywhere - on him, on Sherlock, on the gritty ground beneath them. It seeped warmly through the knees of his trousers and darkened the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

"So, being all clever and stuff," the DI continued sharply, pushing harder now with both hands, "why the _hell _would you do something like that?"

Sherlock was lying on the damp bank of the Thames with wide-open eyes, gasping under the pressure of Lestrade's palms over the deep stab wound in his abdomen. It was not the first time he had been stabbed there. He was surprised how easily an old scar opened under the insistent press of a knife. Experimentation in a controlled environment would have been ideal, but this was fine too -

"Stop it!" Greg's face was very close to Sherlock's now, catching the wandering grey eyes with his own insistent brown ones. He lifted one hand from the wound and pulled Sherlock's scarf from his throat, using it to assist in staunching the bleeding.

A sharp breath hissed down through Sherlock's teeth and he began to shiver. "H-Had to s-stop him. G-Got the... memory stick..."

"Yeah, and he got away anyway, it's useless without him, so you're an idiot and-"

"Didn't get away."

"Yes, he did-"

"Didn't. Get. Away."

As if on cue, shots rang out from two blocks over, making Greg jump visibly. Two shots, swiftly fired. Handgun. Probably a .40 caliber. Hard to tell, being so distracted, but if Donovan was down, then the two of them were alone here, and the suspect would no doubt return momentarily to retrieve his stolen hardware.

Lestrade's walkie crackled to life from the damp ground beside him. "Suspect's down," Donovan gasped, her voice tinny through the speaker. "Still breathing. Backup on the way. Paramedics en route to your location."

Somehow, Sherlock's barely-perceptible smirk managed to appear incredibly self-satisfied. "See?" He coughed painfully.

"Stupid git," Lestrade snarled. "You didn't know she'd get him. You stepped in front of a knife - again - without a thought for what would happen."

"Now's... really n-not the time... Detective Inspector..."

Greg looked down then, dismayed to see that the scarf between his hands was already soaked clean through in bright crimson. He wasn't a medical man by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew that this kind of bleeding meant trouble. It meant a nicked artery or something. He could feel Sherlock shivering beneath him - shock and blood loss - and squared himself above the consulting detective, putting his weight behind his hands.

At this, Sherlock cried out sharply, limbs spasming in protest as his body tightened against the sudden increase in pain and pressure. A sob tore from his throat and then his hands were grabbing at Lestrade's, trying to pry him off to no avail amidst ragged, gasping breaths.

"I'm sorry, kid," Greg said limply. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and strained to hear the sirens that he knew must be close, but his ears were filled with the sounds of Sherlock's pain - the weak cries and whimpers that begged him wordlessly to let go. "Shh, it's okay, you're fine. You're fine."

And then at last, with one final, halting groan, Sherlock's eyes rolled back and his body stilled against the mud, frighteningly quiet except for the uneven breaths that rippled through his chest.

Lestrade heard the ambulance pull up behind him, and the sound of those tires in the gravel might as well have been a church choir.

* * *

Hospitals reek of antiseptic. It's distinctive. To some, it might indicate cleanliness or a sense of security, but to Greg it just smelled of death. He'd lost people in hospitals, too many people, good people, and he was overwhelmed by the fear that he was about to lose another.

Sherlock had disappeared behind the doors of the surgical suite over an hour ago. Lestrade had followed the gurney that far, only stopping when a nurse turned and pressed a hand against his chest with an authoritative, "This is as far as you go." He didn't even get to say goodbye - not that Sherlock would have heard him - and before he'd known it, the doors were swinging shut in front of him with that big fat _Do Not Enter _sign and Sherlock was gone.

And now, seventy-two minutes later, Greg was folded into an uncomfortable waiting room chair with his head in his hands, occasionally dropping his left wrist into his field of vision to check his watch. The hideously mint-green linoleum floor was starting to swim before his eyes. He had no idea what was going on, how bad Sherlock's condition was, or when he'd be out of surgery. Come to think of it, he didn't even know what hospital they were at. All he was aware of was the passage of time, and it was excruciatingly slow.

Some time later, a pair of over-polished Italian shoes interrupted his incessant stare at the floor tiles, and Greg slowly dragged his eyes up a tall, Holmesian form and had to blink a few times before he realised he was staring up at Mycroft. The elder Holmes was extending a Styrofoam cup of black coffee with his left hand and regarding him critically.

Lestrade didn't know what to say. He accepted the cup gratefully and shook his head, staring slack-jawed up at Mycroft, ashamed that he hadn't even thought to ring him when they'd arrived at the hospital.

"Dr. Whitaker is a very skilled surgeon," the elder Holmes said without prelude. "He was briefed on the situation long before the ambulance arrived, and he works quickly. Sherlock is in the best possible hands."

"I suppose you did all that," Greg said, sipping cautiously at the scalding coffee. It burned his tongue, but also sharpened his senses and woke him from his stupor. He glanced up in time to see Mycroft incline his head thoughtfully without bothering to confirm or deny the assumptions about his involvement.

After a moment's consideration of the waiting room, Mycroft dropped his briefcase into a chair and quietly assumed the one beside the DI. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands into his lap. His eyes were on the clock, and he was utterly silent.

"It's been two years," Greg murmured into the silence, after it had stretched on for eleven difficult minutes. He fixed wide, tired eyes on the contents of his Styrofoam cup. "Almost to the day."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow.

"Since I met your brother."

"_Found _him, more like," Mycroft mused.

"Under an overpass. Yeah." Lestrade lifted a hand and dragged it back through his short hair. "And then you kidnapped me, tied me up, and threatened my life for having done so." He turned to look at Mycroft, and their eyes met.

Mycroft looked slightly amused somewhere behind that dark, unreadable gaze. His wry mouth turned up at one corner. "I regret nothing."

* * *

Greg didn't mean to fall asleep, and wasn't entirely sure how or when it had happened. But he knew he was dreaming when he opened his eyes and found himself sitting on the roof of St. Bart's with a cigarette between his fingers. Despite the frigid winter wind ghosting over his skin, he didn't feel cold. Sherlock sat beside him, wrapped up tight in his ridiculous woolen coat, ashes trailing from the butt of his cigarette as their legs dangled side-by-side over the street.

"There's so much I never told you," Greg said, staring down at the pavement. Strangely, he could feel Sherlock's body beside him, warm and pressed close at hip and shoulder.

"I'm probably not dying," Sherlock pointed out with a one-shouldered shrug. "The fatality rate of stab wounds, for the most part, is around three percent. Gunshot wounds are far more dangerous."

Greg frowned dubiously, his expressive features crumbling under his fear. "There was a lot of blood, Sherlock. I mean, really, a lot."

"Mm. Well. It takes two litres of blood loss to kill a person. In general."

"Less than that, someone your size," Greg added.

"Okay," said Sherlock, tapping off his cigarette over the edge of the building. He took a drag and exhaled into the air above, watching as the breeze took the vapour away. "So suppose I die."

"Sherlock!"

"Don't be dramatic. What is it you haven't said? If it was that important, surely you would have said it already."

Greg scowled and looked down at his cigarette without lifting it to his lips. "Doesn't matter. This is a dream. Telling you now won't make a difference."

"But if I survive, you won't tell me anyway. If I don't survive, you won't get to. So why not tell dream-me?"

"Because! It's..."

"What? Pointless?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock shrugged in a _have-it-your-way _fashion and took another long breath of smoke, this time allowing it to pour slowly, lazily from his lips. "I will never understand you."

At this, Greg started, and turned to look at his friend. He glowered. "You're a poor copy, you know that?"

"Because the real me would never say something like that?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I'm a figment of _your _imagination, so if I'm faulty, it's your doing. You do realise this, of course." Without looking at Greg, Sherlock shrugged again, pressing his lips together as he stared down at his own feet. He swung them gently back and forth, watching the toes of his shoes dangle above the sparse pedestrians below.

"You're like a son to me," Greg blurted before he could stop himself.

At this, Sherlock finally did turn and make eye contact. He scanned Greg's face rapidly, picking him to little tiny bits, just as he would in real life. "That's not a revelation," he said at last.

"You've noticed, yeah I know. You feel it too. You called me 'dad' once. At the Yard. By accident. Just a slip. But you did it, and I've never forgotten that."

Sherlock nodded slowly, turning his gaze downward again.

"So you admit it. Then why do you fight me so hard all the time?" Lestrade could feel his brows knitting, and knew that his pain was visible. A tight grimace made the lines on his forehead stand out, and he extinguished his cigarette on the roof ledge with a taut sigh.

"Because I don't need you. Or I don't want to."

Greg drew back a little. "What?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock reached out and tapped Lestrade's temple with one long forefinger. "Your thoughts, not mine. I can't tell you what the real me is thinking."

"Yeah, and the real you could be dead."

Sherlock perked up and tilted his head, listening, straining his ears to hear something that Greg wasn't picking up on. "No," he said thoughtfully. "No, I don't think I am..."

* * *

"Detective Inspector."

Someone was shaking him awake, and Greg slowly returned to the present with a gentle bump, straightening himself from his cramped slouch in the hospital chair. He opened bleary eyes to see Mycroft standing over him, one bracing hand on his shoulder as he coaxed him into wakefulness.

"Come," Mycroft ordered brusquely as soon as Lestrade's eyes focussed. He removed his hand and reached for his briefcase. "He's in Recovery."

Greg jogged to keep up with Mycroft's swift pace, drawing level with him as he turned a corner down the hallway. "How is he doing?"

"He's stable, I'm told. There was a lot of damage to the bowel and he required several transfusions, but a full recovery is expected, pending infection. They'll likely keep him the week."

"He won't like that."

"He's hardly in a position to argue."

Silently, Greg followed Mycroft up to the Recovery wing, then down to the very end of the hall. Sherlock was situated in a private room, of course, with an East-facing window. Mycroft pushed the door open quietly and held it for Greg, allowing him to step inside before shutting it gently.

Lestrade approached Sherlock's bed apprehensively, his eyes taking in the sight of the spare form beneath layers of blankets, surrounded by tubing and catheters and monitors. His chest rose and fell steadily with each breath, and the monitor beeped out a slow, even rhythm, but his face was deathly pale against the blue hospital linens. He seemed as if he had one foot in the grave already. "He looks awful," Greg said quietly.

Mycroft walked slowly to the other side of the bed, peering carefully at the monitors and then at his brother's face. "This is what massive blood loss looks like," he replied, appearing unfazed by Sherlock's appearance. He sighed tensely and walked away to one of the chairs at the end of the room, placing his briefcase carefully on the little table there. He began to pull folders of paperwork out of the briefcase and glanced momentarily at Lestrade. "You'll be waiting a while," he said flatly. "Sit."

* * *

Mycroft was right. He usually is, and this time was no different. Hours passed in silence. Sherlock's doctor appeared several times to assess his condition. At first, Lestrade questioned his every move, made him explain what was going on and why, despite Mycroft's withering looks. Eventually, though, he stopped asking, and assumed that no news was good news. For now, it was the best they could hope for.

It was the middle of the night, and Lestrade's eyelids were feeling heavy, when Sherlock finally stirred. Mycroft had stepped out to take a call, and so it was Lestrade who greeted him first.

"Sherlock?" Greg said hesitantly, watching as the consulting detective grappled with grogginess.

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied hoarsely. He licked his lips and opened his eyes partway, blinking rapidly. Then he tensed, sucking in a breath as his fingers clenched above the blankets, pain rolling over his pale face in visible waves.

"I'll call the doctor," Greg started, but he stopped mid-turn when Sherlock's hand appeared on top of his.

"No, it's fine," he said faintly. He let his eyes roll back, allowed himself a moment to breathe, and opened them again. "It's fine... How bad was it?"

"You lost a lot of blood, but they said it looks good. You're stuck here for a week, though."

"Well... we'll see about that." Sherlock's gaze slid and re-focussed, and he narrowed his eyes. "You look awful."

Greg swallowed hard. "You gave me a scare, you dumb arse."

A shallow chuckle rumbled in Sherlock's throat. "Please. The fatality rate of stab wounds, generally speaking, is around three percent."

"What?" That sounded oddly familiar.

"Three percent. Generally. Other complications pending. Obviously."

"Yeah... yeah, I know."

Sherlock sighed slowly and watched Lestrade's face, his own expression melting slowly from pain to what could only be described as serenity. Clearly, he was close to passing out again.

"You were right, you know," Lestrade said suddenly.

"About?"

Greg felt his face flush hotly. "A few months ago, you said I needed you. And. Um. You were right."

"I usually am." Sherlock's speech was limping now, words slurring together as his eyes closed. "But sometimes you are, too."

Lestrade watched quietly as Sherlock fell asleep again, his breath evening out and his body relaxing as unconsciousness came back to claim him. Mycroft came in then, and Greg let him know that he'd been awake briefly. Mycroft murmured that this was a good sign, and with a slow exhale went back to his work.

It was hours later when Greg remembered that conversation from months ago. Sherlock had told him, _You need me_. And that was true, on more levels than he had the strength to admit to anyone. But up until now, he had forgotten what his own response had been. _You need me too, you just don't want to admit it. _Sherlock had not responded that day, only met his gaze with a wry smile and turned his back to walk away.

Lestrade stared at the still form on the bed.

_Sometimes you're right too._


	17. In Which Lestrade Decks the Halls

Lestrade was singing. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't have minded. He never said anything on the rare occasions that Greg deigned to sing, and he certainly never would have corrected his ever-constant botching of the lyrics, but this time... well, this time was just a bit different.

"Deck the halls with bells of holly..."

"Boughs," Sherlock growled.

"Sorry?" Lestrade stopped mid-stride, a coffee cup clutched in one hand and a thick loop of shiny, white garland in the other.

"_Boughs _of holly."

"That's what I said."

Frowning, Sherlock looked up from his laptop. "You said _bells_. _Bells _of holly doesn't make any sense."

"Huh." Lestrade set his cup down on a side table and dropped the garland on an adjacent armchair. "I've always sung it that way. Nobody ever said anything." He shrugged, kneeling to assemble the final pieces of a false Christmas tree he had insisted upon putting up in Sherlock's dingy flat because the place was too 'gloomy'. "Maybe the holly is arranged in a sort of bell shape, y'know? Like those little mistletoe branches that you hang from the ceiling."

Clearly perplexed and perhaps slightly annoyed, Sherlock shut his laptop and turned to face the DI, the soft fabric of his dressing gown rasping quietly against the upholstery as he did.

"You know what I mean," the DI went on, noting Sherlock's confusion and waving it away. He snapped the last piece of the tree together and stood it up. "Doesn't matter anyway, I s'pose. Nobody nails holly up on the walls."

"It's a bit archaic, yes... Why exactly are you, er, decking _my _halls?"

Greg shrugged. "Donno. Just seemed inappropriate not to have _something_."

"Have you ever known me to have a Christmas tree?" Sherlock challenged, picking up his violin from the coffee table. He lay back on the couch, the laptop carelessly discarded on the floor in favour of his rather unmusical pizzicato.

"No, and it just isn't right. Didn't you celebrate Christmas when you were growing up? You must have had a Christmas tree." He sifted through the decorations at his feet and clicked his tongue. "Forgot the fairy lights."

"No fairy lights."

"Fine then."

"And yes."

Lestrade glanced over.

"Yes, we did celebrate Christmas," Sherlock continued, picking distractedly at the violin strings. "But it was a dull, dismal affair."

"What? Why?" Greg had begun stringing garland round the tree, stepping over Sherlock's clutter and his own piles of ornaments alike.

Shrugging, Sherlock abandoned the violin on the side table and picked his way over to the tree. He stood on the other side of it from the DI and took the shining loop of garland, wrapping it round his side before handing it back. "All the fighting," he said at last.

Lestrade wound garland across his side, unable to see Sherlock except for the long, thin hand that reached around the tree to pull the excess across. "Fighting?"

"You've met Mycroft. Hurry up over there." His fingers twitched impatiently until Lestrade placed the sparkly loop into them. "We never got on. You wouldn't believe how it upset our mother. Which upset our father. Who shouted. Which upset everyone even more. As I said: dull. Dismal."

"Well, it isn't supposed to be that way. I mean, you know that, right?"

Sherlock shrugged, but Lestrade didn't see it.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade peered at him from between a pair of false branches. "You do know that?"

"What was it like for you?"

"Christmas? It was nice." The DI smiled warmly. "My sister and I always woke up early on Christmas morning. Mum and Dad would have been up all night wrapping and labelling gifts for us all, and arranging them all nicely round the tree. So our favourite thing was to wake up before them and go down to see everything all set up neatly. We would sit on the stairs and just look at it, wondering which ones were for us. I mean - there was never much, but to us, at the time... it was the most amazing thing." He paused long enough to stick the end of the garland in the back where it wouldn't be noticed, and popped open a box of little metallic bulbs, shoving it under the tree toward Sherlock. "Here, start putting hooks on these."

"And then?"

"And then hang them?"

"No - Christmas. You were saying." Sherlock's nose and eyes peeked round the boughs of the tree for just a moment before they disappeared again. Shortly, he thrust a newly-hooked bulb out at Lestrade.

"Oh. Um. Well, then our parents would get up and we'd all sit and open presents. It was the first thing we did once everyone was awake. My mum always insisted on video taping the whole affair. We never watched the tapes, though, never. I think we all forgot about them. So anyway we'd open presents, and then my dad would make this huge breakfast. In the evenings we'd have this really lavish - well, lavish for us - dinner and watch one of my mum's old Christmas films." He shrugged. "I guess we had a bit of a tradition like that."

"Mm." Sherlock nodded slowly, absorbing the DI's words as he hung a shining blue bulb on one of the highest branches. "And now?"

"Well... now my mum's gone and my father lives in Dorset, and my sister has her own family..." He shrugged, but there was nothing close to indifference in his voice. There was an ache there that went unmarked and untold.

And against all odds, it was Sherlock who spotted it.

"Now you spend Christmas with me," the detective offered nonchalantly.

"Hmm?" Lestrade peered round the tree at him.

"Well, last year we were working a case - but we went and had dinner after, if you recall, because the case was finished by the afternoon. We went to your flat in the evening. Your niece came round and I let her win at chess."

"She beat you."

"The year before that, I hadn't paid my rent and was sleeping on your couch. You bought me the violin."

"Oh, I remember."

"The year before that, I was ill. You came here. You brought some frankly terrible homemade soup and _It's a Wonderful Life _and I slept through the whole thing. And the year before, we had only known each other a month and I said I didn't do Christmas, and you said - "

"Bollocks. I said, 'Bollocks, everyone does Christmas, or something like it'."

"Right."

"And this year?"

Sherlock shrugged. "This year we put up a tree in my flat, and I harrassed you endlessly for it."


End file.
